Holy Darkness
by Clara Stone
Summary: A story about loss, guilt, sacrifice and, of course, love. Erik and Christine carry on with their lives a year after the events at the Opera until they are suddenly pulled back together. CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Erik receives a last gift from Nadir and tries to m
1. Prologue: Holy Darkness

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the _Phantom of the Opera_ characters. If you are on this site, you probably know who they belong to (does anyone get the feeling that I _hate_ disclaimers? hehe)

  
A/N: Hey everyone. This is a story a long time in the making. One of my favorite church hymns is a little-known song called "Holy Darkness". It's a beautiful song, I really love it. Anyway, it inspired me to write this. So, each chapter will be titled after/based on a phrase or line from one of the verses. This is a very strange way for me to write--I usually write having the entire story and all its plot twists in my head before I begin. With this one, I'm just going to see where the song leads me. It's an experiment, bear with me. But unlike _you_, I know how the song ends, and so I have a pretty good idea where the story is going to end too. The fun is getting there. BTW, in this prologue, I'm pretty sure I took a line from _Shrek_. Just bear with me, ignore it. Not the line, the fact that it's from _Shrek_. You'll see what I mean. Oh--and also--just because this story came about because of a church hymn, it's not going to be religiously based. Just thought some people might like to know that. Enjoy. 

Prologue: Holy Darkness  


Holy darkness, blessed night

Heaven's answer hidden from our sight

As we await you, o God of silence

We embrace your holy night

Christine leaned back on her elbows as Raoul rowed the boat across the late, the taste of Erik's lips still on her own. Her body tingled where he had held her, as if his hands were pressing against her right now. A line from a fairy tale flowed through her mind: "awakened by true love's first kiss". What was that? Sleeping Beauty? If so, Christine thought, she should change her name to Aurora. For though she did not sleep for one hundred years, she had just been awoken with that kiss, for the first time.

Epiphany. A sudden realization. Could any other word describe what had just taken place besides that? She no longer knew the girl she was merely hours before. Everything was clear--her body trembled with the ferocity of being alive! How wondrous the world looked with her new eyes! How heavenly the black water felt tickling her fingers!

And yet… they were rowing away. Away from that which she now knew she needed. What was she doing? The man who smiled across from her was not the man who made her feel this way. He stood somewhere in the house on the other side of this lake. She should jump into the water! --but she couldn't swim!

He had sent her away. She had been his; she had given herself completely over to him. He must have understood she loved him! And now he cast her into the blinding light forever! She would always long for the comfort of his black veil. But he had made her strong. The strength she felt inside her was unbelievable. It would have to suffice to dream. Dream of him and his holy night.

  



	2. Fires of Affliction

Disclaimer: I do not own _The Phantom of the Opera_ or any of its characters. Don'tcha know?

A/N: Hey everyone! Like the lil' prologue? Well, to some extent, you must've because you're reading this, right? (Boy I hope _somebody's_ reading this…) I know the prologue was short, but this chapter's a fairly good length. Okay, the story _officially_ starts one year after the prologue. Chapter One is mostly Christine-reflections, but the little action there is happens to be very important. So… enjoy! Please R/R! Love y'all!!

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Chapter One: Fires of Affliction

Christine entered the bedroom on tip toe, quietly closing the door behind her. Raoul had already fallen asleep and she did not want to wake him. It was well past midnight; Christine had taken to retiring to bed long after the rest of the house was already asleep. It was the only time she could be alone, and she liked the night. It was serene, peaceful, a time for reflection and herself. It felt like she never stopped moving during the day; being the wife of a Vicomte entailed much more than she had ever anticipated. So she spent the day bustling around the house, going out on errands (she hated sending servants for jobs that she herself could easily do) and accompanying Raoul to the various events he attended. Then at last the day would be over and she could relax in her drawing room with a book, her journal or just her own thoughts. 

Her husband attempted to wait up for her every night, and every night he failed. And so it was this night. He lay on his back, his head tilted to the side, sleeping peacefully. His perfectly formed lips parted slightly in the middle, exposing his teeth. He was a beautifully formed man, Christine noted. Not that she hadn't noticed this before. But here, in the darkness, his face was lit only by the rays of the moon through the balcony doors and the light of a candle on the bed stand, and it glowed with angelic splendor.

That candle! Christine sighed and rolled her eyes as she hurried forth to his bedside. No matter how many times she reminded him to put it out before he went to sleep, he never remembered. Holding back her hair, she blew out the candle. Raoul's face flushed into darkness. Christine smiled and kissed her husband's forehead gently, careful not to wake him. 

Suddenly the balcony doors blew open with a tremendous gust of wind. Christine hurried to shut them, but when she arrived at the threshold the air was still. _Strange_, she thought, _it is not even windy tonight._ She stepped onto the balcony and closed the doors behind her. The air was fresh and clean out here, and Christine did not fear to be without candlelight. The moon beams were always enough. 

She leaned her elbows on the railing and looked over the garden. Her roses would be in bloom soon; she had planted them last Spring when they had first moved in and had anxiously awaited for their rise as they slumbered through Winter. She longed to see which would bloom first, the white, or the red, for she had planted them both, mixed between each other.

This was a nightly ritual for her by now; she had been coming out onto this balcony since her wedding night, almost a year ago. And for almost a year she had almost been happy. She had everything most women dreamed of and how people envied her! Christine couldn't deny that, women told her everyday with their spiteful glances and flattering words. She had made it incredibly far for a girl whose father was a nomad. She now had a beautiful house, constantly filled with servants and guests, and a doting husband. For what was Raoul but doting. He loved her with such an innocent passion. In the few weeks between their departure from the Opera House and their wedding, he visited daily, for hours at a time, sitting with her and watching as she lost herself in her wandering thoughts. He believed her traumatized, weakened by her experience. He was wrong. There was nothing weak in Christine's nature, not anymore. She knew who she was, what she was capable of, and that knowledge gave her strength. She laughed outright at her silly actions of the past. All the while Raoul planned their wedding, Christine formed a plan. She would return to Erik, show him who she was now, a woman worthy of his love, and together they would know bliss. Raoul was a childhood love, always to be treasured but not enough to sustain her.

On the day before her wedding, she returned to the Opera House and crept down through the cellars, finding herself beside the lake sooner than she expected. There was no boat. Christine called out for him, but there was no answer but the calm sway of the water. So she waited. She sat down and waited for hours, calling out every so often, refusing to give up. Several hours later her call was answered, but not by he she sought. The Persian, Nadir, responded; she could remember his exact words.

"You'll wait for an eternity and still get no response, I'm afraid," he said softly, making his presence known for the first time. "Erik died three days ago." He paused here, as if waiting for her to say something, but there is nothing one can say to such news. "He went peacefully…" Christine couldn't remember what else he said then, something about how he died, as if she didn't believe it already. When he finished she asked to see him, one last time, and he told her she couldn't, that he had already been buried, just this morning. He would not tell her where; he did not think it wise. 

She left the underground shore a widow in her heart but would not let herself cry until she was home, in her bed alone, for the last time before sharing it with someone else, someone she did not love, for the rest of her life. All her plans, laid to waste. She should have returned weeks ago. She lay for hours, intermittently crying for Erik, praying for his soul, and hating his memory for leaving her. She cursed his name, she declared her undying love to his unseen presence. The pain she felt consumed her entire being and left her speechless of any words to describe it. She finally fell asleep out of pure exhaustion on a tear-stained pillow.

Christine awoke the next morning fully aware of what she had to do, and went to Raoul willingly at the altar a few hours later. Erik would have wanted her to be cared for. And there was love between them, even if it wasn't the love she wanted, it was there. It would have to do.

In this fashion she had lived for a year, appearing to be the perfect wife to the perfect husband in the perfect marriage, more affectionate and caring than any their friends had ever seen, or so they said. But inwardly, she cried out with the same pain that had haunted her that never ending night. She endured it as best she could, keeping herself busy, which wasn't difficult to do, and dedicated her nights to the husband she should have had, to whom she would always be married in her heart. 

"I thought I heard you out here, darling," Raoul said, stepping out onto the balcony and breaking her reverie. Thank goodness she had not been speaking aloud to Erik, as she so often did. "I do not know how you got by me without me seeing you."

"You were sleeping, dear," she said to him, a forced smile on her face. They went through this every time she woke him up, that is why she took such great care to avoid it.

"I was not," he said. But tonight he did not protest it anymore and joined her at the ledge. "What have you been doing?"

"Thinking of the roses," Christine replied, not a complete lie. "They should bloom soon."

"Come to bed." 

"In a few moments."

He kissed her on her forehead. "I will wait up for you," he said, leaving her alone once again.

Christine sighed. She should go in soon; Raoul would wait for her. But she had not had the chance to speak to Erik tonight… Raoul was probably too close for her to speak aloud, but it was tradition by now, and she did not know if she could sleep without the comforting conversation. And tonight she felt such a longing, a pull on her very soul. She had never dared to beg God to send his spirit to her, but the pain was almost unbearable tonight and she didn't know why… Yes. Yes she did know why. It had been a year, a year exactly, almost to the hour, that she had last seen him. She felt it more than she knew the exact date and time. If there was any moment he would appear to her, it would be now.

"Erik," she whispered softly, as if her mouth was by his ear, "Erik, I need you. Please, Erik, come to me. Let me hear your voice one more time and say to you the things I never had the chance to say. I could live the life I lead for a hundred more years if you would only come to me this one night--"

--There--a light in the darkness, fluttering, shimmering. Christine's heart stood still. Her lungs took in no air. All she could do was stare at the faint glimmer in the garden. It was impossible, there was no way… And yet, he had promised once to come whenever she called… It _had_ to be him! As soon as her body began functioning again she propelled it to the door with as much force as she could muster while still being soft and quiet. Inside, Raoul's candle was relit, but he himself was fast asleep, so Christine threw herself outside their bedroom. She ran down the hall, wondrously breathless, her heart soaring higher than a child on Christmas morning.

Her feet barely touched the grass as she ran outside into the garden, toward the spot she had seen the flickering. Beneath two large oak trees was a bench where she often sat. That is where he waited, she was sure. Past the sleeping rose bed, behind that tree, there he was--Erik! Her heart leaped up as she finally arrived at the bench, then crashed down. Nothing. He was not there. Just a mirror she had left out, reflecting in the moonlight.

Christine sat down on the stone bench, defeated. She lay the ornate hand mirror on its face to stop its depressing shimmering. She was stupid to have let her hopes grow as tall as they had. Erik was dead, and he was not coming back.

But it wasn't fair! Christine hung her head and let the tears fall freely. She was still his! A year later and she still cried for him! The heart doesn't heal--once broken it can never be mended, no matter what anyone said. Happiness was forever out of her reach. She could be content, but never happy, sublimely happy. The potential for bliss died with Erik. The only comfort she could find now was in the hope that, as a spirit, he could look into her soul and see how she loved him.

Christine stood up and wiped away her tears. She had to be sensible. Raoul must not know. He was her last hop for joy. Put Erik aside, recall him in your dreams, but live now for your husband. She repeated this to herself as she slowly walked back toward the house.

Passing under her balcony, he eyes fleetingly wandered up to the window. She stopped. Something was odd, out of place. A strange orange light glowed from within. Christine stepped forward to get a better look. Her eyes widened as her curtains were swallowed by that orange light, now orange and yellow… and red.

Christine gathered up every inch of vocal strength she had in her body and screamed. "_Raoul!_"


	3. Soul to Grieve

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the original _Phantom of the Opera_ characters. I do own Wesley, but I named him in honor of Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, my _Angel_-ic love, who sob died because the stupid WB didn't renew my show.

A/N: Thanks for the great reviews! Mystery Guest—in all my years of MP3-ing, I have never found a recording of this song. Like I said, it's _extremely_ little known. I only know of it because I had a wonderfully crazy director of music at my church and she made us sing basically every song in the missal. Regarding the lyrics, I'll post them on here once the story's done. Like I said, every chapter is named after a line of the song, so if you know the song, you know the story (well, kinda). And where's the fun in that?

Also, I just started the Phantom Phiction Writers Group at Yahoo! Groups. Here's my mission statement so far:

As phans, we all know the story of The Phantom of the Opera probably better than we know our friends. As phiction writers, we use that knowledge to create stories, whether they are set after the story, before, between, or completely in an alternate universe. However, like people, no story is ever perfect. They all need work, even the best ones—a different word here, an introductory paragraph there; even a simple switch of punctuation can change how a story feels. The Phantom Phiction Writers Groups is committed to developing new, original, well-written stories, in hopes of stimulating the entire Phantom community.   
  
Basically, the Group is there to help each other with their stories, offer support to writers, discuss POTO and phiction in general, and notify readers with their updates.  
  
You don't have to be a phiction writer to join, but you do have to enjoy phiction. There is a no-bashing rule (that means YOU Raoul-haters, sorry, I'm not particularly fond of him myself, but we've got at least one Raoul-LOVER and we can't discriminate), but other than that, everything's pretty free. So, if this is interesting to you, please go sign up.

By the way, I can't believe that a lot of you thought that I would kill Raoul off! And so soon in the story! Where's the conflict if he's dead? Heh heh…

Well, enjoy, and please R&R!

**Chapter Two: Soul to Grieve**

Christine hurled her body through the large front door, her chest heaving, cramps in places she didn't know she could have them. But she propelled forward, up the stairs, struggling through it all, screaming for the servants. _This house is too big!_ she thought as she rushed down the hall, her blood burning with fear. _I'll never get there!_ The door at the end of the hall seemed to grow father away with every step. It looked demonic, the entrance to Hell itself, the brown wood glowing strangely while flames licked the threshold.

She reached the door and went right for the knob, jumping back in pain as her hand bled heat. Tears and smoke clouding her vision, Christine threw her body frantically at the door using strength she never possessed before. The hinges gave way and she fell in, landing hands-first onto the floor. Thick, dry smoke engulfed her, suffocated her. Choking, she looked up, searching for Raoul within the clouded air. She couldn't see him, but the bed was ablaze, red and oranges abounding. _If it wasn't so horrendous it could be pretty,_ she thought. But no. To get to Raoul. Christine tried to push herself up, but the smoke pulled her down again, from the inside. It was inside her now, she could feel it working its way through her body; she was its prisoner and it was determined to rape her in as many ways as it could imagine. She couldn't breathe—couldn't see anymore! She tried to scream, to move—nothing worked! Everything was going black—where was Raoul—where was anyone? She lay her head down—she just wanted to rest. Her exhaustion was unbearable… There were flames tickling her skirts, but she barely felt them. Just to rest—

Suddenly arms were around her waist, pulling her away from the peaceful blackness that awaited her, carrying her out of the Hell room and back into the hall. She could breathe again! She gasped and cried and sunk to the floor. Wesley, her husband's British manservant, knelt down beside her.

"Madame, madame—can you hear me? Are you—"

"Raoul," she gasped, her voice failing within the single word. He nodded and charged back into the room, holding a cloth over his mouth. Christine felt herself growing dizzy. Her head was so heavy; she couldn't hold it up… Her head fell hard onto the floor. Her eyes fogged over with smoke and she couldn't tell if it was actual smoke or a mental cloud. She struggled to see through it, praying silently for Raoul to walk unscathed out of the bedroom. A parade of servants hurried by her carrying buckets of water. They faded in and out as her vision continued to haze over. She could tell by their frantic cries that they couldn't reach her husband. She wanted to help, even tried to move to, but her limbs gave way beneath her. The world went dark and she met the blackness at last.

When she opened her eyes again the fire was out and two servants were bringing him out, his arms wrapped around their necks, his bare feet dragging against the floor. His skin was bright red. _My God, my God, _she thought. His face was hidden from her, his chin sinking into his chest. The servants were hurrying, that was good, wasn't it? Christine crawled on her hands toward him, weeping his name. Wesley stopped her and sat her up.

"Madame, I beg you, come with us into the drawing room. Your husband is alive. He is unconscious, but alive. We are putting him in the guest room. A doctor has been summoned. The fire is out. Everything will be fine."

"Alive?" she choked. "He's alive?"

Wesley held her into his chest and let her weep there, stroking her hair softly. The boundaries of their servant-mistress relationship meant nothing now. "He is," he whispered softly. "The doctor will take care of him, and everything will be fine. There was not much damage—the bed is destroyed and so is the canopy, but everything else is fine. The main attack was on the bed, the clothes, the drapes, everything is—"

Christine pulled away sharply, finding her voice. "Wesley, if you say fine one more time I shall scream. Everything is not fine." She began to weep fiercely. "My stupid husband!" she exclaimed. "How many times have I told him… Oh God, what have I done? I should have gone to bed… I need to go to him, to be with him while the doctor--"

"You must wait, madame. Rest yourself. Let me take you into another bedroom, you must sleep, you have been affected by the smoke—"

"How can I sleep?" she cried, throwing her hands dramatically into the air. "Please, please, bring me to my husband. He is all I have." Wesley looked down, obviously distressed.

"Madame, trust me. You must not see him right now." He looked back up at her, his eyes full of worry. As the image of Raoul's red skin passed through her, she knew what he meant. A sob caught in her throat and she nodded, finally in acceptance. Slowly, Wesley stood her up and walked her ever so slowly to a guest room in the opposite side of the house.

"Checkmate." Erik said, knocking the white king off the table. Nadir looked at him with loathing.

"You do know that I hate you," he said, a smile upon his lips.

"I would not expect you to feel any other way," Erik replied, laughing.

"So how much do I owe you?"

Erik waved his hand. "I get payment enough out of the pleasure of seeing you struggle." Nadir looked relieved; this was the sixth time this month Erik had beaten him round after round. Why he even attempted to compete with a genius was beyond him, but he did, almost every time they saw each other.

Which was quite often, in fact. For about five months now, Erik had been visiting Nadir's humble flat almost every day. It had become a ritual of sorts. He would arrive in the late morning and they would play a game or two of chess. Afterward, Darius would bring in tea and the daily newspaper. Finally, after an early supper, which Nadir had to practically force him to eat every day, Erik would leave. He never stayed after nightfall; when Nadir questioned this, he simply said that the nights were one thing he preferred to keep to himself.

And not the only thing, mind you. No matter how long or hard Nadir questioned him, Erik would never disclose where he was during the months after Christine left him. That was a year ago, probably almost down to the day. Christine left with the Vicomte, and Nadir temporarily moved into Erik's underground house. As his conscience, he couldn't let him hurt himself or anyone else over the situation. So he stayed, making sure he ate at least once a day, calming his murderous rages as best he could, and giving him his space when he needed to cry or play his organ.

This carried on for a month, when one day, Erik's name was heard, coming from the other side of the lake. Erik, who had been completely absorbed in his music, his one respite, froze completely. It was Christine, shouting for him at the top of her lungs. Nadir had been making tea when he heard it. He rushed into the parlor and found Erik frantically searching the room.

"What are you going?" he asked, startled.

"Looking for my cape," Erik replied, turning over the sofa.

"Why?" Nadir stood still, shocked at the amount of activity Erik was doing—Erik, who had barely moved in the past month.

"To go to her," he said simply. "Where is that bloody cape?"

"What?"

"Don't you hear her calling for me?" His voice sounded at once desperate and hopeful. "She needs me."

"No, Erik… she doesn't."

"Yes, she does! Why else—"

"No, she doesn't!" Erik stopped and looked at him, surprised by this outburst. "Erik," Nadir repeated, softer, "she left. She left you. I've read the papers; she's marrying the Vicomte. Let her go."

"I don't want to," he said, just as softly.

Nadir sighed. "I know, but you must remember why you let her go in the first place."

"Because that's what was best for her," he nodded. Nadir turned the sofa onto its legs and Erik sat down sullenly. "I'm being foolish."

The two stayed there, not speaking for quite a while, Erik, sitting in his own world of thoughts and Nadir standing, looking on his friend in genuine sympathy. He too knew what it was to love and long. But Christine was not silent. Her calls kept coming, a little less urgently, but just as hopeful as before. Eventually, it was too much for Erik to handle. He took three long strides into his bedroom and slammed the door behind him. Nadir could hear him pacing rapidly and every few minutes he would jump at the sound of something being smashed against the wall.

The calls refused to cease.

After another hour of this behavior, the bedroom door swung open again. Erik strode out, the missing cape flowing out from behind him, and walked steadily across the room.

"Don't try to stop me, Daroga," he said, looking past Nadir. "It's killing me. I have to go and end this."

Nadir scrambled to stand in his path. "Erik, please, you can't. She'll never leave if she sees you—you'll haunt her forever! Let me go to her, please, I'll stop it."

Erik paused and looked down at his friend. "What will you tell her?" he asked quietly.

"Whatever it takes." Nadir had hardly trembled in Erik's presence since their first few hours together. But the fire in his eyes was unlike anything he had ever seen, even in his darkest murderous rages.

Erik breathed deeply and sat down, the fire extinguished a little. With his hands on his knees for support, he breathed again. Nadir saw that his whole body was trembling, from the tips of his long fingers to the back of his neck. "Tell her…" he started, but his flawless voice caught on the words. "Tell her I'm dead. I'm dead and buried. She's a curious creature; she'd want to see me otherwise. Go out through the torture chamber, so that she doesn't see you. Talk to her and, please, make her stop yelling."

And he did.

When Nadir returned to the house, Erik was gone. He gave up looking for him before he'd even started. If Erik chose to disappear, Nadir would never find him. He assumed he would never see him again. But six months later Erik showed up on his doorstep with a friendly attitude and no explanation to offer.

Nadir leaned back, stretching his arms above his head. That all felt like ages ago, and, though Nadir knew he must think about her often, Erik hadn't mentioned Christine once in the five months he'd been back. A door had slammed shut with her departure and it would take a mighty blow to open it again.

Darius entered, two newspapers in hand. He gave one to each man and then began to clean up the chess pieces. Erik leaned back and placed his ankle on the opposite knee, opening the paper casually. He never read the front page; all the interesting stories lay hidden in the middle.

Nadir, however, read the paper all the way through. _You never know what's relevant to you_, was his philosophy. His eyes scanned the front page rapidly when they stopped short, focusing in on the bottom right corner. His mouth opened a bit in disbelief.

"Erik…" said Nadir, warily. Erik hummed in response. "Erik, there's something you'd want to see." He flicked his fingers as a sign to continue while his head stayed hidden behind the newspaper. "Fire at de Chagny Mansion," Nadir read. "Vicomte badly burnt." Erik at once was by his side, Nadir's paper in his hands (the Daroga hadn't even felt it leave his fingers).

"'Early Wednesday morning'…" Erik muttered, reading quickly, "'suffered severe burns'… 'no foul play'… No mention of her," he said, throwing the paper down.

"Erik, I'm sure she's fine if—"

"Excuse me, Nadir," he said distractedly, picking up his cloak. "I have to…"

And with that he simply walked out of the house, leaving Nadir and Darius stupefied.

Wesley Pryce was overstepping the boundaries again. He was in the kitchen, on his hands and knees, cleaning up spilt soup. He was the master of the house's manservant; there were other people he could order to do this sort of thing. But he had realized early in his career (which wasn't all that long ago; the man was only thirty-two) that matters of an important or fragile nature were best dealt with if he did them himself. So that's why he was kneeling next to a puddle of broth while the kitchen staff buzzed around him. The Vicomte preferred certain vegetables in his soup and the staff had recently ignored this, feeling that his unconsciousness was reason enough for them to be spared slicing a few more vegetables. So he took the effort upon himself. Unfortunately, he wasn't nearly as good a chef as he was a groomsman (his first position ever). He dropped the large pot almost as soon as he had picked it up. Now the remnants of an hour's work swam all over the kitchen floor.

Wesley took the soaking towel outside and squeezed the broth onto the ground. He stood still for a moment, letting the Spring sun warm his face. It was the first time he had been outside since the fire three days ago. Three days—had it really been that long? The hours blended into each other. Wesley had spent hours by his master's bedside; again, he didn't trust anyone else to tend to him. The Pryces had been with the de Chagny family since the present Vicomte's parents spent their honeymoon in England. Wesley had watched the Vicomte grow up, and looked upon him as dear as an older brother upon his younger.

The Vicomte was convalescing incredibly slowly. He had woken up for a short interval on Thursday, but had fallen back into unconsciousness. It was too short of a time for even the Vicomtess to be summoned, poor woman. She herself was not quite well. Fevers had plagued her since that night and kept her in bed most of the time, except for the hours she spent by her husband's side.

As Wesley threw the slightly-less wet towel over the clothesline, he felt a chill down his neck. A shadow spread over him. _Odd,_ he thought, _such a dark shade on this bright night. I hope it's not a bad omen._ He turned to go into the house, then stepped back, gasping as a white mask emerged from the shade.

A/N: Like it? Hate it? Please review!! More to come soon, I PROMISE!!


	4. Barren Soil of Your Loneliness

Disclaimer: All the _Phantom of the Opera_ characters belong to Gaston Leroux, Andrew Lloyd Webber and Susan Kay. Wesley (the character) belongs to me but Wesley (the name) belongs to Joss Whedon. Let's just say that he's Wesley Wyndam-Pryce's great-great-grandfather, or something like that.

A/N: Okay, here's chapter three. Whoah. I think this is the fastest I've ever updated in my life. Seriously, this thing just popped right out. Okay. Whatever you do, _do not stop reading._ Do you hear me? Once you start, _don't stop._ I don't care if you have to go to the bathroom—hold it. If you get a phone call—let it ring. If you think 'this story sucks' and want to X-out immediately—do so _after_ you finish this chapter. It's not long, you'll all do fine. I have a reason for saying this, and I'll explain after you read it. I was really stuck in the beginning of this chapter. I wrote the opening scene directly after finishing chapter two (I originally didn't know if it would end chapter two or begin chapter three) and then couldn't write anymore for a week. You can probably tell the transitional paragraphs between the opening scene and where I really jumped on the writing. I just started writing frantically and if you could see my little notebook (I write everything before I type it), you probably wouldn't be able to read it at all. Okay, that's enough. Here you go. Remember, read until the end!

**Chapter Three: Barren Soil of Your Loneliness**

"Did I startle you?" Erik asked, stepping out of the shadow.

"Obviously," Wesley replied, his hand upon his heart.

"You haven't contacted me."

"I've been busy. I brought a note to the Rue Scribe—I take it you didn't receive it."

"No, I didn't receive it," said Erik menacingly. "What did it say?"

Wesley sighed. "The canopy caught on fire from a candle on the bedside table," he explained. "She wasn't there, but the Vicomte was. He's in bad condition. Now, I don't know where the Vicomtess had been, but she was the first to get to the bedroom. She was in the smoke too long and has been in a fever ever since."

Erik nodded, contemplating this. A small vial appeared in his hand. "Put this is her food," he said, handing it to Wesley. "She should recover in about three days. And if she doesn't," he said, stepping forward and causing Wesley to shrink back, "or should anything else happen, if you do not contact me…" He paused, and stepped back. "Well, for your sake," he continued, the sneer of a distant threat in his eye, "contact me."

With that he left, leaving Wesley alone and trembling.

Actually, Christine's convalescence took less than three days, closer to one and a half. By Monday she was out of bed completely and spending all of her time, including all her meals, at her husband's side. He still wouldn't wake. He tossed, turned and sometimes murmured, but his eyes never opened.

For now, he was still. Christine gently stroked Raoul's hand, which lay heavy in hers. His left arm and left were badly burnt; the skin had turned an ugly red color, layered in tense, ever-present wrinkles. Whenever she touched the burnt arm, flakes of skin would fall off with the slightest brush of her fingers. She had nearly fainted the first time, and had frantically tried to put the thin, crisp flakes back on his arm. Wesley had entered then, summoned by her screams, and tried to calm her down. The doctor said not to worry about that, he had explained. The burns hadn't been too deep and his skin would heal. Still, it didn't make Christine any easier, and she made a point to touch his burns only if necessary.

She leaned back in her chair, Raoul's hand now folded between hers on her lap. She was so tired… She hadn't dared to sleep lest he wake and she not be there. But her eyes were no longer responding to her brain, and her head fell slowly forward into a deep sleep.

It didn't last long, however. Just moments after her eyes closed, the door suddenly swung open. Christine sat up with a start.

"Monsieur, you cannot—" Wesley's voice carried through the open doorway. Christine looked up to see someone standing beside her chair. The figure was tall, thin and clothed in a large black cape. Under the wide brim of his hat, she could almost make out a white—

"Erik!" she gasped breathlessly. Now she was awake. She stood up slowly as he turned to face her. Yes, it was Erik! The strong but tender eyes, the way his clothes hung on his frame, the magnetism between their bodies—everything was just as she remembered it. She flung her arms around his neck and sobbed into his chest.

"Christine," came the loving whisper, "how I have missed you."

"I love you," she said into a mouthful of fabric.

"I know," he replied. "But now is not the time." He gently pushed her away from him. "I must tend to the boy."

From beneath the cloak, Erik pulled a small vial. He bent over Raoul, carefully opened his mouth, and poured the contents in. He then sat the slumbering Vicomte up, forcing him to swallow. Instantly, Raoul's eyes opened. Christine cried his name and threw her arms around his neck.

"Thank you, monsieur," he said to Erik, extending his hand with a genuine smile on his face. "You saved my life." With Christine's assistance, he got out of bed. "A beautiful white light seemed to have engulfed them all. "From now on," he continued, "we will be as brothers. And as a token of my affection, brother, may I present to you my bride." He physically handed Christine over to Erik. "She is a sign of my gratitude. Besides, she has always been more yours than mine." Christine's eyes glistened as she held both men's hands. "We will all be one, happy family."

Christine looked into Erik's eyes, which smiled back at her. She gently removed the mask, and staring back at her was the most beautiful face she had ever beheld on a man. Her mouth dropped in astonishment.

"I forgot to tell you," he said, smiling a real smile for the first time ever, "I had something fixed." Before she could utter a response, he pulled her into a kiss.

Christine sat up with a start. She looked around. Raoul still slept silently, his hand was still lying on her lap and no dark figure stood at her side. It had all been a dream. The tears came, but she didn't let them fall. Instead, she carefully placed Raoul's hand on his stomach, stood up, and walked out of the room. She continued crisply down the long hall until she came to her own, newly charcoal-colored room. She strode powerfully onto the balcony and only then, when the doors were closed behind her, did she allow herself to fall into shattered pieces on the floor.

A gull with a broken wing, stranded on a rock in the middle of the ocean, that's what she was. Alone. Miserably, breathlessly, hopelessly alone.

Across the city, Erik mirrored those sentiments. For a year he had been able to push Christine out of the front of his mind (although never completely to the back; her memory floated somewhere in the middle, a sharp pain on some days and a dull ache on others), but now her presence engulfed him. She was everywhere; there was no single square inch in his house that was not filled with some memory of her. In lapses of consciousness, he projected her image in front of him. Finally, to save the little sanity he had left, he checked into Hotel d'Nadir. His friend was happy to have him, but annoyed that all his questions went unanswered.

Soon after, Nadir forced Erik to sit down and eat. The meal was swathed in tense silence. Neither man even glanced across the table at each other. Even the clink of silverware seemed to be muted. Eventually, Nadir decided he was the one to break the silence.

"So," he said casually, lifting his soup spoon to his mouth, "I take it you saw her."

"What makes you say that?" Erik asked just as casually.

"Oh, come now, Erik!" Nadir exploded. He sometimes had almost as large a temper as Erik. It had never driven him to murder, but still it lay hidden within him. And a hidden temper is far worse than one that bubbles constantly at the surface. Yes, Nadir kept his hidden deep and well; he was a man of propriety, and only let a glimmer of his true rage break forth when he was with Erik, who had obviously never bothered to conceal his own temper. "You know perfectly well what I'm talking about! What did you do? Where did you go when you left here on Friday?

"I don't see how any of this is your business," Erik replied, still as calm as before. Nothing could upset him now. "But if you must know, I left here that morning, saw a servant I am threatening, gave him medicine for Christine and then returned home, where I proceeded to let her memory haunt me out of my house. Satisfied?"

The Persian did not respond. After a few minutes, he simply nodded, then looked back down at his soup. He raised his spoon to his lips but then immediately brought it back down. He repeated this action twice, then looked back up.

"You're threatening a servant?"

Late that night, Erik lay fully dressed on the bed in the guest room, not even attempting to sleep. The small room was furnished all in deep green: green walls, green sheets, green drapes; the entire room looked like a pot full of vomit. Erik must remember to ridicule Nadir in the morning.

For now, he was alone. Not 'for now' actually—as always. He had always been alone. But he had never been lonely. Tonight, he was, knowing Christine was in pain and being completely incapable of comforting her. _You dug yourself this hole,_ Erik reminded himself. _You sent her away and, even though she returned, you sent her away again, this time permanently._

_I did what was best for her,_ he rebutted.

He had spent his life moving forward from the past, never dwelling on things he couldn't change. He had always lived in the present, but now he couldn't stop reminiscing, focusing completely on the old.

If their parting had made Christine strong, it had made Erik hard. Now he felt the void inside him physically expand. Throughout his life he had experienced every feeling on the spectrum on emotions. Hate, fear, love, they were all there in his bank of past feelings. But now he just felt empty. Cold and empty.

Loneliness will do that to a man.

------------------------------------------

Christine stood up from her puddle of tears on the floor, bitterly angry with herself. She hadn't meant to break down like that, in such a weak manner so common in the former version of herself. 'A lady must always keep herself steady, even when alone.' That was the mantra that Madame Giry had whispered in her ear as they stood before the mirror together the morning of her wedding (Christine had always had a feeling that the dear ballet-mistress always knew much more than it seemed). Christine wiped her tears, straightened her dress and then realized…

Realized that she was done mourning Erik. That was it. She had used up all the tears she had for him. He was in her heart, always would be, but she needed to leave him behind. And she was finally ready to do that. All he had ever wanted was for her to be happy, and if that entailed pushing him out of her mind, he would understand.

She walked back down the hall to her husband with new reason in her step. _Her husband_. Christine's heart swelled at the thought of him. How could she have ignored him for so long, Raoul, who had always been so steadfast and unwavering in his devotion? They had shared such a naïve passion for each other the night on the roof of the Opera when they'd shared their first kiss. She would find that love inside her again. She would throw all other thoughts from her mind. And she would have the perfect marriage (if such a thing existed).

Christine entered the room where he husband slept and knelt down at his bedside.

"Raoul," she whispered, bowing her head as if in prayer. "Raoul, I need you. I need you with me. Everything's been terrible without you. And it will just get worse and worse the longer you lay there. But I know we can get through this. You're strong, I'm strong, but together we're stronger. We can get through this, if only you just please wake up. I promise to be as devoted to you as you have always been to me. The ghost that stood between us has passed on. Now there's only you and me and the rest of our lives before us.

"So, _please_, wake up."


	5. Plant My Seed

Disclaimer: I don't own Raoul, Erik, Christine, Nadir and Darius. I own Wesley the character but not the name (and if you all want to know, he looks like Wesley end of _Angel_ Season 2 but has the attitude of Wesley Season 3 post-_Billy_ if you know what I'm saying. Ah, don't we all just love the tortured man).

A/N: Okay, a few things about the last chapter. When I wrote that 'read until the end' note, it was because I was deathly afraid that people would get to the dream sequence and be disgusted by it. And yes, Midasgirl, it was supposed to be farcical. The day that I wrote that, I had read _three_ stories in a row and two of them had Raoul and Erik become best friends and the third one had Erik get his face 'fixed'. Basically, I was mocking those stories. I have never been outright rude to an author about their phic, but that was too much in one sitting. I laughed the entire time I wrote it. But it makes sense in Christine's head. That's probably what would truly be the best outcome of the scenario in her opinion. But it's only a dream, good for a few laughs and a nice segue into Christine's emotional breakdown, which we don't actually see, but we feel the effects of it.

About the Madame Giry quote—ah, isn't it just so her? I've been trying to use that quote in the last three of my stories, but it just fit so nicely in this one. And Nadir, well, he's really quite clueless about what Erik is going through. But Erik is incredibly oblivious to what _Nadir's_ going through as well (hint, hint).

The last chapter and this chapter hold a lot of clues for the future of the story. This chapter is entitled 'Plant My Seed' for a very obvious reason (aside from the fact that it is the next line after 'In the barren soil of your loneliness' in the song _Holy Darkness_, which this whole phic is based on!), because the seeds are all being planted for the story in this chapter. So read carefully, you might be able to figure out what's about to happen (I just can't help dropping clue bombs all over the place, I love it! There is nothing better as a writer than surprising a reader. I really believe that.)

On a final note, these updates are coming as quickly as they are because I am INCREDIBLY EXCITED to get to chapter seven. I have pages of notes on that chapter alone, full of quotes and plot points… Oh, I'm so excited! So, look out for that.

So, enjoy and _please_ review!

**Chapter Four: Plant My Seed**

The next morning, Raoul woke up. Whether or not he had heard Christine's desperate plea remains to be seen. But awake he was.

Christine had been taking a bath when it happened, and only took enough time to throw a robe on before running through the halls to where he lay. Wesley escorted her in, beaming, and only his eyes told of his surprise and unease at her lack of attire and dripping hair. And there he was, sitting up, giving her a weary smile. Words escaped her and she threw herself beside his bed sobbing joyfully. A fire ignited within her as she showered his face with kisses.

"Christine, my darling…" he said weakly. "I feel like I haven't seen you in a year." Raoul nodded to Wesley, who bowed and left, shutting the door behind him and leaving the lovers in peace. The servant felt like whistling as he strolled down the hall. A weight had been lifted off his shoulders with his master's rejuvenation. He hadn't been this happy since… Well, it had been a long time. He absently put his hand in his pocket and his smile faded as his fingers met the edge of an envelope. His joy dissolved immediately and he walked down the grand staircase, serious once again. The weight fell on him again. With a steady face, Wesley walked out the front doors, where a small carriage was waiting for him. He got in and said to the driver:

"The Rue Scribe."

If it is humanly possible, Wesley's mind was completely blank for the duration of the entire trip into the heart of Paris. He stared straight ahead, thoughtless, almost lifeless.

"Wait here," he eventually called to the driver as they arrived on the designated street. Wesley briskly walked four blocks until he arrived at a large, black metal gate. He stood for a moment until the street was clear, and then bent down and slipped the envelope out of his pocket, through the metal bars, and leaned it against the backside of the wall. He stood up quickly, straightening his jacket, and hurried back to the carriage.

Try as he might, Wesley could not keep his mind blank on the return trip. He felt guilty, as he always did after delivering information to that man (after all this time, he still did not know his name), but he also knew that he did what was best for everyone. It had not been easy sneaking out with notes at least once a week, especially when the Vicomte and his wife were both healthy and active. It wasn't the sneaking around which tortured him (for he had done plenty of that before, especially in his younger days), but every time he touched his pen to parchment, he felt the sting of betrayal. Not only was he betraying the Vicomte, who trusted him as an old friend, but he betrayed someone very close to him, someone who believed he was the most honorable man ever. He had striven ever day to live up to that expectation, and had succeeded in his own mind, until that damnable man entered his life.

Two years, that's how long Wesley had delivered these traitorous messages; two years since he had first met this specter. It was late evening, and he had been outside, taking a break from the trials of angry footmen and empty-headed chambermaids, when he saw a dark figure approaching out of the corner of his eye.

"Monsieur Pryce," the figure said in a deep and resonant male voice.

"Yes," Wesley replied, squinting to see in the darkness.

"I have come to make you an offer," the man continued, easily walking back and forth a few feel away from him. His face was hidden from the shade of a large hat and his voice was not familiar at all. "You know everything that goes on in this house. I need to know if anything irregular goes on, especially concerning the young Vicomte and a Mademoiselle Christine Daae. You are going to give me such information."

"What makes you so sure I will?" Wesley was angry; he felt like a caged animal and he didn't like it.

"You will."

"My apologies, sir, but I will not be frightened into any such thing. Perhaps you might try a maid; they scare much more easily. But you will find that you are just wasting time talking to me." Wesley on his heel and started his valiant exit when he was suddenly swept back as he felt a rope tighten around his neck. He frantically gasped for air.

"I can do more than frighten, monsieur," came the sinister hiss in his ear. "Now you will stay and listen, understand?" Wesley nodded, feeling his face turn blue, and the rope was instantly off his neck and nowhere to be seen. He fell to the ground, coughing.

"So you plan on threatening me, then?" he said when he had finally caught his breath.

"Naturally," he replied with a laugh in his voice.

"Well, it won't work," Wesley said calmly. "Kill me if you like; I won't betray my master."

"Oh, how very gallant of you, Monsieur Pryce. Sadly, gallantry bores me. But I do believe you misunderstand me. Killing you is the farthest thing from my mind." In one swift motion, the man pulled Wesley up and held him there. Wesley felt the pressure of sharp metal against his side. "Knives are so vulgar, aren't they, monsieur? Not my favorite weapon by far, although they are less vile than guns, cold, hard things. I will never use one. But knives have their purpose. What if, for instance, after I kill your 'master', I were to take this knife here and pluck out your eyes, then cut off your tongue. Your livelihood depends upon your ability to see and, without being able to communicate, you couldn't help anyone avenge your precious master. You would be resigned to a life of solitude and inner torture until the day you die. Now, tell me, monsieur," he continued, drawing the knife away and pushing Wesley aside, "what your answer is."

Wesley slowly consented, knowing there was no other alternative. The man then described how and with what to contact him. Wesley was silent, only nodding every once in awhile in understanding. At one point the man lifted his head up and Wesley saw that his entire face was covered in a stark-white mask. Wesley wasn't frightened (he rarely was, you know), but he was confused and, as much as he hated to admit it, intrigued.

"Who are you?" he asked quietly.

The man looked directly at him. "I am no one," he replied simply, "just a ghost. A mere…phantom, if you will." He laughed sadly. Wesley looked away, no less confused, and when he looked up again the man was nowhere to be seen.

That had been two years ago and since then he had delivered messages and met with the man if necessary. And without fail, every time he set out to go on these errands, the weight of guilt grew heavier and more cumbersome. He didn't know exactly who this man was or why he wanted an eye in the de Chagny mansion, but he had many suspicions. Obviously, the man was linked with the Vicomtess and at first he believed him to be a former suitor. However, why would he continue to take such an interest in her after she was married? True, he had disappeared for a few months after the de Chagny's were wed, but when he returned he was even more adamant about receiving news.

Wesley then thought that he might be her father or a relative of some sort. Last week was not the first time that he had given Wesley medicine to relieve her ills. But then he did not understand why he would not go directly to her. The Vicomtess had no family alive to speak of, and with her gentle, giving nature, she was sure to embrace however distant a relative. The whole situation simply did not make sense.

Wesley left the carriage and went in the back way, through the kitchen. The house was blazing with joyful relief at the Vicomte's awakening. The chef was preparing his favorite meal, the maids were giggling again, and even Gerard, the bitter old Master of the Grounds, was caught whistling. Wesley laughed and celebrated along with them, but had anyone taken the time to truly look at him, they would have seen how his eyes were laden with despair and grief, even as he smiled merrily.

Meanwhile, back in the center of Paris, Erik was walking down the rue Scribe. It was only late afternoon, but he had needed to get away. Nadir was becoming insufferable; he had done nothing all day but sit and stare at Erik, expecting explanations. It was intolerable behavior for a man as old as Nadir, knowing Erik as well and as long as he did.

Erik had given Nadir a mediocre explanation of his situation with Wesley, but he seriously doubted that he could have given him a greater one. At first, Wesley was simply a tool to track the boy. Erik had never trusted him and if he were planning a long trip or anything that might have had to do with Christine, he had wanted to know about it (of course, everything important Erik had either inferred or discovered himself). But after the marriage, this arrangement became less about the boy and more about Christine. Even though he had let her go, he still felt somewhat responsible for her well-being. If she was being mistreated, he wanted to know. If she was sick, he wanted to help. But he couldn't be anywhere near her lest he become unable to resist going to her or she realize that he was alive. So his arrangement with the boy's manservant became very useful.

Erik arrived at the same gate that Wesley had just departed from, and he slid his hand between the bars, pulling out an envelope. He didn't read it; he simply tucked it into his cloak and turned on his heel.

Erik let himself back into Nadir's meager flat (Nadir was one of those people who never locked their doors during the day—he thought it welcoming, Erik thought it foolish) and walked into the parlor. Nadir was standing awkwardly with his arm draped over Darius's shoulders. As they stepped forward, Nadir groaned in pain.

"Careful, Darius," he winced. My knees are more than usually stiff today."

Erik rushed over to aid his friend. "Nadir! What… what happened?" Erik wasn't normally surprised at anything, but at that moment he was in a complete state of shock. Together he and Darius guided Nadir down into his chair.

"Oh, it's nothing," Nadir said with a wave of his hand. "Just old bones."

"You're not this old."

"Come now, Erik," he laughed. "I'm older than you are and neither of us is young anymore. Just because you can still scale walls and crawl around like a cat doesn't mean that we mere mortals can as well."

"I… I hadn't noticed." Erik felt truly ashamed. He had one friend in the world, and he had been too obsessed with the ghosts of his past to notice that he had been in need.

"No," he replied gently, "but I didn't want you to. Come," he continued, smiling, "let it all be forgotten. I may need some assistance moving around, but nothing else is wrong. Let us just pretend that you never saw that and carry on our day as usual. Now tell me, have you threatened any servants lately?"

Erik faked a laugh and the two conversed under the appearance of normality. But Erik couldn't help but think about what he had seen. He watched Nadir's every movement carefully, noticing how few there actually were, but when he did move excessively, his limbs were stiff and slow. He couldn't bear it for long and immediately after dinner, he excused himself to bed early.

Back in the green guest room, Erik found the forgotten envelope in his cloak. He stared at it in his hands, feeling incredibly guilty. He had been concentrating solely on Christine, who was perfectly safe and happy (well, as happy as one can be with a husband in a catatonic state) and basically ignoring Nadir, who seemed to be in a good deal of pain. Nadir had been the only friend he'd had his entire life and Christine… Well, he loved Christine, but she was out of his life, or should be. Why did he insist on keeping these selfish ties to her? What did it cause but hours of frustration, turmoil and pain?

He would rip the letter up, tear it into a thousand pieces. That would do it! –No it wouldn't. He would probably try to fit the pieces together afterwards to read it. As much as he ridiculed her for it, he was just as curious as Christine. He would drive himself insane if he didn't know how she was.

So, thoughts of Nadir flown from his head, he opened it. _He's awake_, was all it read in small, neat handwriting. Erik put the note on the bed stand. _Well_, he thought, _there it is. She is with her husband once again. Nothing more for me to do_. He lay down on the bed and folded his hands. Then, there it was: the slight turn in his stomach which he knew so well, the physical manifestation of his urge to see her. Two years ago he had practically let these cravings control him, directing him to the reverse side of her mirror or the graveyard at Perros. Now, he stumbled to work through them, trying to push his mind toward other things. But tonight the urge was incredibly strong, like it had been just after she left. He felt like he had to see her right away, as if it would be for the last time. Perhaps that stupid husband of hers, now that he was awake, would feel the desire to set something else on fire. This urge to see her was far too great; he couldn't suppress it any longer. Just a look, for a moment, and he need never see her again.

No! A look would never be enough! If he saw her, he would want to speak to her, spend time with her; he'd found out long ago that he could never be content to just watch, suffocating behind a mirror.

Erik rolled over and told himself to go to sleep, but his eyes remained wide open.

-----------------------------------

"Slowly…" Christine warned. She and Wesley were supporting Raoul as they guided him down the hallway. He could probably walk by himself, but his legs were shaky from the days in bed and Christine hadn't wanted to take any chances. She didn't want him out of bed at all, but he had wanted to see their bedroom for some reason, and so she enlisted Wesley's help and the three of them carefully set out down the long hallway.

Christine opened the bedroom door and Wesley let Raoul into the scorched room. He then handed Christine her husband and gave a slight bow.

"I'll be right outside if you need anything," he said, shutting the door behind him as he left.

Raoul glanced around the room. "So this is what happens when I don't listen to your warnings."

Christine laughed. "I wasn't going to say anything…"

"No, not at first, not until you'd forgotten that I was harmed at all, at which point that will be the only thing I hear from you." She laughed again and he began to limp around the room, slowly taking everything in. "Well," he said after a few minutes in silence, "I must say that I'm quite pleased with the amount of destruction. I would have been very angry if I had been unconscious for a week simply because I had burnt down the nightstand." Raoul stumbled over to the remnants of their beautiful bed and sat down. He motioned for Christine to come and sit beside him, which she did. He lovingly tucked a loose curl behind her ear and then pulled her face towards his. Midway through their tender kiss, the burnt boards in the bed gave way. They both tumbled backwards and Christine let out a small shriek before they both erupted into laughter. Raoul lay back on the bed and Christine leaned her head on his chest, listening to his heart beat and feeling his last pulses of laughter against her cheek.

"We're going to have to refurnish this entire room, you know." Christine murmured in agreement as she closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around her husband. Everything felt good, for once. "Have you thought of a new color scheme?"

"Lilac and gold," she replied after a moment of thought.

"I feel the need to remind you that you are not the only one living here."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Just that, perhaps we can pick something more manly."

"Well, what would you like, brown bedding?"

"Now there's a great idea."

"You burnt down the room; I get to decorate it."

"See, I told you it would come back to haunt me." Christine giggled, snuggling even deeper into his chest.

"Raoul," she said, her voice suddenly serious, "you really scared me." She lifted her head up to look at him. "I thought… I mean, I haven't been that scared since—"

"I'm sorry," he said. "But everything is fine now." _At last_, Christine thought; she smiled and leaned in to kiss him. They relaxed into light, meaningless, happy conversation. Neither of them even thought to look through the window into the dark, but had they, they would have seen a man in a mask staring back at them.

A/N: Love it? Hate it? Please review! More to come soon, I promise!


	6. The Price of Compassion

Disclaimer: Same as last time.

A/N: Okay, this chapter really jump-kicks the rest of the story. I hope you like it! Please review! PLEASE, PLEASE, _PLEASE _review!! I haven't gotten many, and it makes me kind of sad. I am enjoying writing this story _immensely_, but half the fun is knowing that others are enjoying it as well.

One more chapter until chapter seven! After this chapter, you can guess why I am SO EXCITED for that chapter!

**Chapter Five: The Price of Compassion**

Erik slammed the guest room door behind him and tore off his mask, throwing it across the room. He blindly started hurling items against the wall, everything from pillows to china. He grabbed hold of the small mirror hanging on the wall with both hands and focused in on his horrific face. _What did you expect,_ he asked himself. _They're married. You should be worried if there wasn't love between them. This is what you wanted._

_Then why am I so angry?_ He tore the mirror off the wall and broke it on his knee. Glass shattered everywhere. He put his hands on the wall to steady his trembling limbs but the longer he stared at it, the more he thought about ripping the ugly green wallpaper off, which did nothing to settle his nerves. Someone knocked at the door.

"Erik?" Nadir.

"Go away," he hissed.

"It took me five minutes to get myself out of bed and next door and it will take me another five to get back. The least you could do is let me rest in between."

Erik hurled open the door and stood over his friend, glowering. Nadir's face betrayed his surprise (he had not expected Erik to be without the mask), but he quickly altered his expression and raised an eyebrow. He peered over Erik's shoulder to the ruins that lay behind him.

"I'm pleased to see you consider yourself at home here." He smiled. Erik walked away from him and retrieved the mask.

"Not now, Nadir," he said, tying the mask in place.

"I'm in no mood to socialize."

"You? Bah! You're the most sociable person I know," he said sarcastically, sitting down on the desk chair. "What happened?"

"What do you think happened?" Erik sat down on the bed, his chest heaving in rage. He really should calm down; there was no reason to be this upset.

"I assume you saw her. Then again, I always assume you saw her. But this time, I have a feeling I'm right." Erik just stared back at him. "I see I am right. You didn't like what you saw?"

Erik sighed and lay down; formalities meant nothing between them. "It's all incredibly immature of me," he said softly, laughing at himself.

"You forget, Erik," Nadir said, his eyes flickering off into a memory, "I was in love once as well. And I know that your brain often disconnects from your emotions sometimes… Why, I once nearly castrated a servant who I thought was looking at my wife the…" He trailed off, murmuring, lost in his mind. After a moment, Erik sat up and looked at his friend, confused as to where he went.

"Nadir?" he called. His eyes had glazed over; his lips moved but no sound came out. "Nadir…" Erik repeated, to no response. "Nadir!"

The Persian snapped out of his reverie, his eyes still glazed over. He looked at Erik, confused. "What… who are…" Erik felt his veins flow with panic. Nadir's eyes suddenly filled with recognition. "Oh, hello Erik. What was I doing here? Ah well," he said, picking himself up out of the chair, "have a good night. I will see you tomorrow." He limped out of the room, leaving Erik in stupefied silence. _More is happening to him than aging,_ Erik thought, worried. But, oddly enough for him, he was thoroughly exhausted, too much to contemplate this drama-filled day. He lay back down and, for the first time in his life, fell asleep as soon as his eyes closed.

The next morning, he awoke with more questions in his mind than he wanted to ask. So he didn't. He hurried out of the house, calling to Nadir about having to get something and began to walk without a destination throughout the city of Paris.

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Christine and Raoul had spent most of the morning lounging about in bed. Finally after hours of stroking, talking and kissing, Raoul decided that he had spent enough hours over the last week in bed and wanted to do something else. So the pair dressed and moved down to the drawing room, where they lounged about, stroking, talking and kissing. Christine was overjoyed; she couldn't remember the last time she had felt so carefree. Though her thoughts did occasionally drift away from Raoul and toward a different man, she caught herself quickly every time and turned her attention back on her husband, who was recovering marvelously. The skin on his left leg and arm still had large patches of redness (which he would keep for the rest of his life), but it didn't pain him and he was walking better with every step. He and Christine were shrouded in newlywed-like bliss, which is what probably triggered his mind to this topic.

"I've been thinking," he said, stroking his wife's hair as she sat on his lap and lay against his chest, "we never went on our honeymoon." This was true. After their marriage, Christine was deeply in mourning (though Raoul just believed she was still affected by her traumatic experience) and he had decided that the best thing for both of them would be to begin a regular routine and make a home for themselves. Christine had agreed instantly; a full house to run would keep her bust and her mind off Erik, whereas weeks of traveling and sightseeing would leave her endlessly wondering if he had been where she was, if he had once seen the things she saw. She would be entirely too miserable to enjoy the pleasures of a honeymoon. So they had postponed their trip indefinitely, until today, when Raoul recalled the long-forgotten subject.

"You're right," Christine replied, letting her lips brush the side of his neck.

"Well?"

"Well…?" she teased and he laughed.

"You want me to ask, don't you?"

"Ask what, darling?" she said, feigning innocence.

"Would you like to finally go on our honeymoon?"

"Raoul! This is so sudden!" she joked, then threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. "I would love to." Her husband became very excited; today obviously was not the first time he had thought of this idea.

"Wonderful! We can go anywhere you want, Christine. We'll tour Europe! Italy, Switzerland," (her heart skipped a beat when he mentioned Italy; she remembered dozens of stories Erik had told her about when he had lived there, but she pushed the thought to the back of her mind) "England, anywhere!" He took her face in his hands and kissed her. They spent the rest of the afternoon planning their journey, which would begin as soon as Raoul was fully recovered. To them, at that moment, nothing in the world existed unless it was within the confines of the drawing room doors.

The next morning, Raoul summoned Wesley into the drawing room. It was considerably early for a man in recuperation, but the de Chagnys were both dressed and alert.

"Wesley," the Vicomte started, sitting comfortably in his chair, "my wife is going shopping, but will not let me accompany her."

"The doctor says," she interrupted, "you are not supposed to leave the house until you have completely recovered."

"'The doctor says,'" he jeered, smiling. "Fine. Wesley," he began again, "my wife is going shopping but 'the doctor says' that I may not accompany her. She is going to look to refurnish our room, and I do not want her to purchase anything too—how did I word this darling? —Feminine." Christine rolled her eyes playfully. "I trust your judgment, Wesley, and I was wondering if you would escort her to Paris in my stead."

Wesley bowed. "Of course, monsieur."

Raoul stood up and clapped him on the back. "Thank you, Wesley." He leaned in and whispered, "Make sure she doesn't go overboard on the 'lilac' colors."

"Ahem. What was that?" Christine called.

"Just informing him of your color scheme, darling," he replied with a wink at Wesley.

And so that was how Wesley ended up spending the day shopping. They went into practically every store in Paris and by suppertime, Christine had contracted a carpenter to build a new bed frame and found a lovely seamstress to create the coverings and grapes. However, she still hadn't found the perfect carpet, the one item she felt she had to buy that day. They went in store after store to no avail. Finally, in what she promised was the last stop, Wesley found Christine fingering a beautiful Oriental rug longingly.

"Is this the one?" Wesley asked, smiling slightly.

"What?" Christine snapped out of her thoughts. "Oh." She looked back at the carpet. "No. No, I don't think so."

"Pardon me saying this, but why not? You seem to like it." Wesley did not feel uncomfortable speaking to his mistress in such a manner; she had always treated him like a good acquaintance and never like a servant. She sometimes even took time to speak with him in his native tongue, using the little English she knew. She was the kindest woman of his esteem and he was very fond of her.

"Yes, I do like it. It reminds me of someone else's run." She laughed. "Although if I wanted it that badly I could just go and take the original, I'm sure Erik wouldn't mind."

"Erik?" The innocent question fell out of Wesley's mouth before he could think about it and Christine looked back at him, horrified.

"Wesley," she said urgently, clutching his arms, "forget that name. Do not mention it to Raoul, please, I beg you. That man passed away long ago and there is no need for Raoul to feel any more pain. Wesley was taken aback, but he nodded in consent. Christine smiled at him. "I don't think we'll find anything here," she said, walking toward the exit without a glance backwards. "I shall look more another day." Wesley trailed out behind her.

The next evening, Wesley was still thinking about that exchange when the answer came to him. Literally. He had been alone in the kitchen when suddenly the masked man stood in the doorway.

"I need to speak with you," he said. Wesley nodded and led him down a hallway in the servants' quarters and into an empty room, shutting the door behind them. Wesley sat down at a small table while the man chose to remain standing. After a short, uncomfortable silence, he threw a full purse onto the table.

"I am in no further need of your assistance," he said. "There is your stipend. Do not try to contact me." He turned on his heel and began to leave.

"Wait!" Wesley said. He knew this could be the last time he had to have his questions answered. The man stopped and turned around.

"Yes?"

"You're Erik, aren't you." The man looked at him, a frown in his eyes. Wesley thought he would leave, but to his surprise he took a seat across from him.

"Where did you hear that?"

"You were mentioned."

"By?"

"The Vicomtess."

"On what grounds?"

"She saw a rug which reminded her of yours. She begged me not to say anything to her husband."

"Yes, she would do that." Wesley wished the mask wasn't there; he desperately wanted to know what this man, Erik, was thinking. "So you have discovered my name. Congratulations. Most do not."

"And you don't want any more notes?" Wesley asked on a completely different topic. His head was spinning.

Erik thought for a moment. "Very well. Weekly letters are not necessary. I just…" He trailed off to some place in his mind. "Just tell me if someone is grossly sick or badly hurt."

"That's all you would like to know?"

"No," he replied simply. "I would like to know every time she smiles, the color of the sparks in her eyes when she laughs… But if I can't be there to see it myself, perhaps it is best that I know nothing of it at all."

"She thinks you're dead."

"Good."

"Were you a suitor?" Wesley had no idea why he was being so abrasively inquisitive, but Erik seemed relaxed, as if he had expected questions, and this made Wesley speak unrestrained.

"I don't know if you could call me that," he replied with a small laugh. "If I was, I had a very odd way of courting… Let's just call it a unique situation."

"You loved her?"

"_Love_ her." He paused. "I don't know why I'm telling you all this."

"Why, don't you like me?" Wesley asked, a joke. Erik didn't seem to find it humorous.

"I don't think of you."

"I admire your honesty."

"I have nothing to lie about anymore." This made Wesley all the braver.

"What changed?"

"Pardon?"

"I mean… Why don't you want… letters?"

"My friend is sick. This thing with… the Vicomtess… It distracts me. It eats at me, and I can't think of anything else. So it needs to end."

"I'm sorry," said Wesley, suddenly feeling very sorry for this strange masked man.

"I don't need your pity."

"It's not pity, it's compassion. I understand some of what you're saying and—I can't believe I'm saying this to the person who threatened to torture me—I sympathize."

Erik stared at the floor and for the first time, Wesley saw how he was truly a tortured man himself. "Thank you," he said quietly. For some reason, Wesley felt compelled to share something with him, and so he removed a piece of paper from his breast pocket and slid it across the table. Erik picked it up silently and looked at it. It was a miniature portrait of a young woman, sitting stiffly and uncomfortably. She had soft, dark hair and large eyes. A gentle beauty shone through her discomfort.

"My cousin Frederick Garland took the photograph for me. Her name is Winifred Evans, and we were engaged before the family she worked for moved to England. We tried to get her a position here, but there was no room and so she left. That was four years ago and I haven't seen her since. We've written letters, but not many; it seems to hurt more than it comforts." Erik handed him back the miniature. "So, you see, we have some things in common." Erik nodded and Wesley realized how odd it was that he had found solidarity with the only person he had ever cursed.

After a silent moment, each man lost in his memory, Erik stood up. Wesley followed, slightly surprised. "I must go," he said, collecting himself. "The best of luck to you."

"And to you," Wesley replied, extending his hand automatically. The other man just stared at it for a moment before shaking it. His hand was deathly cold, but Wesley didn't flinch and looked him squarely in the eyes. And as he disappeared down the abandoned hallway, Wesley couldn't help but think that he had made a strange connection with the most unusual man he had ever met.

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The following day, Erik began the next chapter of his life. He spent all morning taking notes on Nadir's symptoms in order to discover what was happening to him and hopefully solve it. He helped Darius assist Nadir until the Persian yelled about being treated like an invalid and then Erik let his friend beat him twice at chess (Nadir knew the whole time, he just liked to take Erik's money). Eventually, they settled at the table for tea, and Nadir once again forced Erik to talk about Christine.

"It's all over, Nadir," he repeated for the third time. "I told you, I gave it all up. It was destroying me even more than before."

"And what of the servant?" Nadir asked. "Did you kill him, or blind him, or whatever you said you would do?"

"Of course not. I paid him."

"_Paid_ him?" Nadir's mouth dropped open.

"He did me a good service; he deserved to be rewarded."

"You just love to play God, don't you?"

"Who knew it could be almost more entertaining than playing Satan?"

Nadir stretched stiffly. "That wasn't very funny."

"You never did understand my humor."

"So you've moved on. That's good. I've been telling you to do that for years."

"Now who wants to play God?"

"I'm being serious, Erik. You have plenty of time left in life. Go back to contracting, you did it once before. Leave France—"

"I always move when living becomes too hard in a certain place. I like Paris. It's the only place I've ever felt could be home."

"Well, you must at least leave the Opera House. That is not a healthy situation for you to be in."

"And how do you expect me to get my organ across the lake, up five stories and out the front door?"

"God damn you, Erik!" Nadir exploded. "I am thinking of your best interests and you just sit there, joking! You don't even know what—and why—and this just—" He started to rock back and forth, his palms over his face. Erik reached a hand out toward him. "I'm fine, I'm fine," Nadir said, breathing heavily. He put his hands on the table to steady himself. He looked up, his eyes glossed over once again, and obviously didn't recognize Erik.

"Nadir…" he said hesitantly. He stood up slowly and turned to get Darius as Nadir spoke behind him.

"Who are you? Where am I? Where are you—Wait!" Erik paused and turned around. "I know you…" There was something different now. His eyes were…glowing red, and his voice had turned to ice. "You killed my son."

"What?" Erik asked breathlessly, stepping backward. The alien feeling of terror coursed through his body.

"You killed my son!" Nadir stood up with surprising force, upsetting his teacup and spilling its contents all over himself and the table. "You killed my son!" he repeated, growling in rage. Before this moment, Erik had not thought it was possible for him to growl so furiously. "You took him away from me! My one link! My only heir! My dear boy!" He lunged at Erik over the table. "I'll kill you! Get out! Get out!" Erik tripped over himself as he ran out of the house and down the street.

_This is worse than I imagined,_ he thought, his feet only gaining momentum. _The degeneration of his limbs and mind…they have to be related. How did this happen so— _A woman suddenly stepped into his path and, although he tried to avoid her, he was running too fast and they collided, tumbling to the ground. His hat fell off on impact and the woman stared unabashedly at the mask, confused and startled. He quickly helped her to her feel, and inquired if she was hurt. After she replied in the negative, he tucked himself into an alleyway, making it seem that he had simply disappeared. Then he began the trek through less populated streets to the Paris Opera House. It may have been filled with his personal ghosts, but decades-old guilt had just settled on his shoulders, and the only refuge he could think of was his music. He had to get to his organ before his mind exploded.

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Christine was spending another pleasant day shopping in Paris, this time alone. Raoul had wanted Wesley to accompany her again, but she was commissioning traveling clothes and had insisted that she did not need a man's help with this. And, as much as she loved spending time with her husband, she needed a day by herself. She had met with her seamstress and then decided to walk around the city before she had to meet her carriage. She was certain that this was not how a Vicomtess was supposed to act, but it was a beautiful day and she just had to spend it outside.

She also loved to simply watch people, an activity she had not indulged in since before she was married. A man mumbled as he walked past her. Two small children on her right marched beside their au pair while two small children on her left screamed and kicked and climbed all over their parents. A woman stopped short a few meters in front of her and accidentally crashed into a tall man who had run out of a cross street. They toppled to the ground. Christine started to hurry to their aid but halted after a few steps. In the tumble the man had lost his hat, leaving his face exposed. Not his face, actually, for that was completely covered. By a white mask. Christine couldn't breathe. She tried to call out to him, but all she could do was stare. By the time she regained her senses, the woman was back on her feet and the man gone. What had just happened? Where did he go? She had seen enough to know one thing for certain:

Erik was alive.

A/N: Like it? Hate it? PLEASE review!!!


	7. Stood Before the Grave

Disclaimer: I own Wesley and no one else.

A/N: Well, this chapter has been written for awhile. It just took me until today to type and upload it. Sorry. I had forgotten that I hadn't uploaded it. Whoops! I've moved back to NYC now and loving every minute of it. Just saw _Dracula—the Musical _and it was amazing, I don't care what those stupid critics have said. I loved it and can't wait to see it again.

Well, this is chapter six. One more chapter until chapter seven, which, I have to admit, I'm having some problems with. I have this perfect chapter in my head, and it's not that. But I hope it will be closer to perfection than it is right now. It's the chapter I wrote this story for, and I hope I'm not giving false anticipation, but I'm really looking forward to you all reading it. Well, this is chapter six, a fun chapter as well, and I hope you enjoy it. Please, please review!!!!

Chapter Six: Stood Before the Grave

Christine had no idea how she made it home that afternoon. She was walking in a cloud; her mind was a violent storm and just as lightening would strike on one thought, completely different thoughts would begin to pour down. Nothing made sense—everything she had believed for the past year crossed down around her. She couldn't have seen that—it was impossible! It had to be!

She sat surprisingly still on the carriage ride home, and even though she wanted to scream, her face never flinched. Only when she caught sight of her house and realized she had to face Raoul did she begin to tremble. Her knees buckled and she nearly fainted into Wesley's arms as he reached up to escort her from the carriage. He guided her into the house and she put her hand against the wall, her eyes darting rapidly.

"Is… Are you ill, madame?"

"I think I'm going insane, Wesley," she said, her hand upon her heart. "I… I do believe I saw a ghost."

"A ghost?" Christine nodded and her lip began to tremble. _Don't cry, you silly girl, don't cry,_ she repeated to herself, but her body wouldn't listen and the tears came in herds, racking her small frame with every sob. Wesley led her into the empty drawing room and sat her down. "I'll go and get your husband," he said, hurrying for the door.

"No!" she cried. Wesley turned around. "Raoul must never hear of this. He thinks this man is dead." She laughed, her thoughts growing even less coherent with every passing second. "Listen to me! What am I saying? Men don't come back to life! There are thousands of people in this city—there could be another man in a mask! Oh, I feel like a fool! Wesley, I am so sorry to have bothered you with my ridiculous nonsense; you must think—" She stopped mid-sentence, for Wesley's face had turned sickly white, his eyes wide and terrified. Her heart beat faster than the wings of a caged bird. "Wesley…" she said softly. He looked at her remorsefully and at once she knew. She knew Erik was alive. Her senses hadn't betrayed her; she wasn't going mad. He was alive (had he ever been dead?) and somehow Wesley knew. But before she could question him, Raoul entered the drawing room jovially.

"Darling, look!" he called. "No cane needed." As he approached her he caught sight of her tear-streaked face and knelt down at her side. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine. I…I almost fainted getting out of the carriage. Wesley caught me, but it startled me."

Raoul stroked her hair gently. "Are you sure you're fine?"

"Yes," she nodded. Christine pulled him close to her and began to plant soft kisses all over his face. Tears trickled down again and glided off her cheek and onto Raoul's.

"Something's wrong," he whispered before their lips met. Everything was about to change, Christine knew, and she wanted to savor the innocence of their love before it disappeared. Again.

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Guilt is a terrible thing to suffer, but there are two types of it: when there is a way to remedy the situation and when there isn't. Erik was feeling the latter, more painful of the two. He felt it so strongly that had his chest suddenly caved in beneath the pressure, he would not have been surprised.

True, he had killed many people, that was understood. But Nadir had called to mind the one time…

A child. He had taken an innocent child away from the world. And not just any child: the only person, young or old to have ever loved him. To have never cared what ghastly features remained hidden behind his mask. A boy he loved so effortlessly with his own heart. And he had killed him. True he had been in pain. True, he was going to die anyway. But it was also true that he had died by Erik's hand, and Erik's alone.

He had told Nadir that he would give his son a beautiful death, and he had. But no child should have to experience death of any shape or form.

He had to get out, go for a walk or…something. He had been sitting on his soda and staring at the wall since he had fled from Nadir's house yesterday afternoon. The streets would be crowded with the morning traffic, but Erik knew of a patch of land in a near park where hardly anyone ventured. There he would be safe from wandering eyes and the shrill sounds of children laughing.

After quickly changing out of the clothes he had been sitting in all night, Erik made his way to the Rue Scribe entrance. A sudden noise sent him quickly into the shadows. He could see the silhouette of a man trying to break down the gate. Erik approached, keeping to the shade, his hand finding his trustworthy Punjab lasso.

"You're not welcome here," Erik hissed, projecting his voice toward the man, who jumped back in surprise.

"Monsieur?" he questioned. Erik recognized the voice and stepped out of the shadows.

"Wesley. What are you doing here?" Though his voice was stern, he knew that only a matter of serious importance could tempt him to disturb this place.

"I apologize for any inconvenience, sir, but—"

"The only inconvenience would have been yours had I not recognized your voice and killed you for your impertinence," Erik replied, holding the lasso toward Wesley to demonstrate his point. The servant's eyes grew wide. Erik returned it to its place.

"I, ah, yes, well… I'm afraid there is a situation I must inform you of. The Vicomtess, she, ah…" He searched for words within his fear.

Christine, Erik thought, in a moment afraid himself. "What? What has happened to her?" He reached through the bars of the gate and grasped Wesley by the arms. "Answer me!"

"She—she saw you!" Wesley cried, staggering back as Erik released him.

"How do you know?" he asked soberly.

"She told me. Yesterday. She came home from shopping, visibly upset, saying she saw a ghost. She mentioned the mask."

Erik began to pace, cursing repeatedly. He started to laugh as the absurdity of his situation settled in. He raised his eyes toward heaven and muttered, "Thank You for always being so good to me. Bastard." _Christine, Nadir, Reza,_ he thought. _So many problems. How did this happen? I used to deal with my problems and mine alone. When did I become a man of the bloody people? And now Christine knows I'm alive. Wonderful. So much for taking a relaxing walk._

"Sir?" Wesley called. Erik had forgotten he was there. "What would you like me to do?"

"What?" Erik was surprised by this question, first for the mere fact that he had asked it and secondly by his sincerity. Wesley had always done everything he had asked, but grudgingly. Now it appeared that he truly wanted to help. Strange…

"What would you like me to do?" he repeated. "She'll try to come find you."

"Yes, she will," Erik realized, and something in his mind turned, clicked almost. "She'll come to find me, but I'll be ready. Thank you for making me aware of the situation," he called, already striding back toward his house and leaving Wesley alone at the other side of the gate.

Alone and confused, that's what Wesley was. He turned to walk away, but then ran back and called out once more to no response. He had forgotten to mention that the Vicomtess knew of their arrangement. She hadn't said so, but something in her eyes had told him. Wesley thought that Erik would want to know that, but apparently it was too late.

Ah well, he thought, walking back to the carriage he had left a few blocks away. _So he wants her to find him. Then she will._ Wesley knew that, no matter how determined Christine might be, if Erik didn't want to be found, she would never find him. But since he did, Wesley was sure that they would be seeing each other soon. He could not help but think that he had just orchestrated a reunion which his master would not be happy about. Yet, at the same time, he was glad to have helped Erik reconnect in some way with his love. A thousand strings pulled him in different directions, and even though Wesley hated playing the part of the puppet, he always succumbed to each tug.

He had only meant to warn Erik so that he wouldn't be surprised should Christine seek him out. Instead, Wesley was the one surprised. Surprised and terrified. He hated feeling that way but it was true—the son of a bitch had scared him, first with the narrowly missed death sentence and later with his reaction to the news. He would hate to see Erik in a temper.

As soon as he returned to the de Chagny mansion, the Vicomtess called him into the parlor. She sat uncommonly still on the large velvet sofa, her back perfectly straight, her head tilted to the side. She didn't look at him as he entered; she simply requested that he close the door behind him and take a seat. Only when he had done both of those things did she turn to look at him.

"You have been in my husband's service a long time, Wesley," she started, her voice uncharacteristically hard, and he nodded, noticing that she was dressed to go out. "And he trusts you with his life. I, however, do not." Wesley was surprised at this, although he probably shouldn't have been. He felt lower than dirt. He had lost the trust of one of the most wonderful women he had ever met.

Her voice softened as she leaned forward, but her words were just as cold. "What aren't you telling me, Wesley? Why have you deceived the family to which you yourself have practically been a part of?"

Wesley was suddenly angry. She knew nothing! Nothing of the threats, the surprise confrontations—the fact that his agreement kept her husband alive! He had acted for the better good of everyone.

He didn't answer her, so she continued. "I know you work for Erik, Wesley, and I would like you to tell me where he is."

"I don't know," he answered honestly.

"Does he still live beneath the Opera House?"

"The Opera House…" This was information Wesley hadn't known. "He lives somewhere behind a gated part of the Rue Scribe."

"Still there…" The Vicomtess stood up to leave. "You have deceived me and my husband. But if the Lord Himself can be forgiving, then so can I. I forgive you this, Wesley; I will not speak of it to my husband. But I do not trust you. If you do anything else to further that distrust I will have you removed from this house." With that, she turned sharply on her heel and left the house. It was the first time Wesley had seen his mistress behave in that harsh manner. _Erik must have given her lessons,_ he thought with a laugh.

Christine was not laughing as she sat in the carriage en route to Paris, an old key pressed securely into her palm. Her initial shock had given way to anticipation, and anticipation had led to naked dread. She knew she had to see him, but what to say, what to do, of these things she had no idea. Should she cry with relief? Or slap him in anger? It all depended on how he acted towards her. If he wept and begged forgiveness she couldn't possibly slap him, but if he shrugged her off she could do no less than kill him

Her head had not stopped spinning since the previous afternoon, not even twenty-four hours before. Her mind was a jumble of thoughts that bounced around like mating rabbits. It gave her a headache.

Erik was alive. She had to keep repeating that to make herself believe it. The man she had loved, mourned for a year and then finally found the strength to set aside had never died. She felt betrayed, overjoyed and terrified all at the same time.

The carriage let her off in the heart of Paris, only a few blocks from the Opera House. She had told Raoul that she was shopping and no one could know of her true intentions. Once she had begun the trek to the Rue Scribe entrance, her mind went blissfully blank. She thought naught of her destination, nor her living former-Angel, nor anything else but the step after the next. When she arrived at the gate, she slipped the key into its lock and entered, walking toward the lake without hesitation.

Christine had been fully prepared to wait at the shore of the lake until Erik ventured out, but she saw upon her arrival that it would not be necessary to wait. For there he sat, the same tall, thin, imposing figure from the life she had once led. Erik. It appeared that he had been the one waiting, for her was sitting patiently in the docked boat and did not seem the least bit surprised to see her. He stood as she approached.

"Erik," she said shortly.

"Christine." Shivers ran down her spine as he said her name. She had forgotten how eloquent it sounded on his tongue.

"You're alive."

"Biologically, yes." There was a distant sparkle in his eye, but Christine ignored it; she was in no mood for humor. She wanted answers.

"How?"

Erik extended his gloved hand toward her. Christine felt the flicker of a distant memory. "Come inside." She took his hand without pause and he led her into the boat. Then they silently rowed toward the house, a place filled with thousands of both treasured and hated memories. Neither knew what awaited for them behind its doors, but neither could care, seeing as they were both consumed with the simple fact of who was seated across from them.

A/N: Love it? Hate it? TELL ME ABOUT IT!!! REVIEW!!!


	8. Love Like A Raging Storm

**Disclaimer:** It's been a long time since I've updated, so I'll just write this out to remind all of you who may have forgotten. I do not own _The Phantom of the Opera,_ Erik, Christine, Nadir, or Raoul (though only the first two characters appear in this chapter, I thought I'd just name 'em all). They belong to Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay and… Andrew Lloyd Webber (UNFORTUNATELY. More on _that_ later). I own Wesley Pryce (who likewise does not appear in this chapter, but I _lurve_ him, so he gets a nod) the character, but not the name, which is owned by Joss Whedon. All up to speed here? I know it's difficult to remember that I _don't_ own these characters, but try really hard. (Just kidding, if you didn't know.)

**A/N:** Well, this here is my Author's Note. And I have quite a lot to say. Sorry. But that's the wonder of the A/N! First of all, sorry about the delay in the update. This semester has been _crazy_—I was a stage manager and I got a job and had my classes and rehearsals on top of all that… Let's just say it was busy. Plus my computer died. Twice. So I had no Internet access for awhile, even if I had a chapter to update. For the people who have been emailing me about _Reality Issues_ (first off, awww, how sweet you care! Thank you!), I kind of thought that the story might be dead. Unlike this story, which lives in a little black notebook that I carry around with me everywhere, in case inspiration ever strikes, _Reality Issues_ lives in a big heavy binder that's on my bookshelf in my room. But I had typed up three more chapters on my computer, just playing around with things. And then, well, my comp crashed. I thought it was gone and it just seemed like way too much effort to re-write three chapters. BUT, I was cleaning out my room to pack for Christmas, and I _found print-outs_! Now I read them and they're pretty meager, need a lot of editing, but I'll work on them and hopefully get a new chapter up by the end of January (because I forgot them in my room in New York, to be quite honest).

About this chapter though, which is obviously what you are waiting to read. Well, this is chapter seven, which I have been excited for since I wrote the story. Unfortunately, like most things that you anticipate to an extreme degree, it is not how I would like it. And the mental block that I struggled through to write these few pages is not letting me retool it very well either. So I thought—here, send it out as a belated Christmas gift to yourself (so I don't have to stress about it any more—MERRY CHRISTMAS everyone, by the way!) and move on. Because I always write half of the next chapter (or more) before I update and chapter eight is flowing _so much easier_ than this one did. I'll go back and rework some things when I have the ambition to later on. Just so you know, the main problem I'm having with it is that there's way too much emphasis on dialogue instead of narration. And I see it like a play or a movie, right in front of me, when I write, so I get the characters' emotions in my head, but other people might not. So if this is just terrible, I'm sorry, it gets better later, I swear. This A/N is VERY LONG, so I'll leave my other comments til the END. Uh, enjoy!

PS: The Chapter Title is EXACTLY what this chapter _should _be like and what it _definitely_ was like _writing _it.

Chapter Seven: Love like a Raging Storm

Christine and Erik sat on opposite ends of his parlor sofa in awkward silence, sipping tea. Christine wished mightily that she had attended charm school as so many in her new social circle had. They seemed to know what to say in any uncomfortable situation and there was nothing in this room that was not smothered in discomfort. It all felt so familiar yet so… distant. Like a different life altogether.

Christine gave Erik a slight smile and he bowed his head, unsure of how to respond. He had enabled her to see him, but what to say now… this he did not know. She was mere inches away from him and he could hardly bring himself to look at her. He stole some glances (how could he not?) but could not find anything to say to her. He wanted to tell her how he loved her still, how she was the only thing that kept him from going mad in a world filled with darkness and torture. But she was married to a man who hated him and thought him dead—what kind of relationship could be born through that?

Out of the corner of his eye, Erik saw Christine finish the last of her tea. In the manner of host, he politely asked if she would like more, which she declined. In hardly any mood for tea himself, he brought the small cups and saucers back into the kitchen, but when he returned something had changed. Christine was standing and approached him slowly, but strangely confidently.

"This is not how I pictured this." How beautifully strong she looked. Erik breathed in the wondrous sight of her for a moment before his ears caught her words.

"Pardon?" he asked, slightly taken aback.

"Last night, once I knew I had to see you, a thousand different scenarios played through my mind. Not one like this though." Erik nodded, understanding her completely. The ends of her lips tilted slowly up toward Heaven, and they both resumed their places on the sofa, the thick layer of ice that lay between them beginning to melt. Christine boldly, slowly, crawled her fingers across the sofa until they covered Erik's naked hand. He could easily count the number of times they had experienced flesh on flesh contact and the unfamiliarity was enough to make him try to quickly draw his hand back. She was prepared for that, though, and firmly wrapped her other hand around his, their palms kissing like Romeo and Juliet. She pulled them closer examining them.

"So real…" she murmured. "You're so real." She looked at him then, and Erik found himself lost in the brilliant golden bliss of her touch and eyes. "Where have you been this last year? Why did you…" She shook her head. "No. No, we have forever to talk of the past now. I shouldn't question, just relish that you're alive. I'm sitting here with you, and you're alive." She smiled brightly until a sudden thought violently struck her. The smile faded then, and she inhaled deeply, her face draining quickly of all color. His hand slipped from her fingers and before Erik could make sense of the situation, she had gotten up from the sofa and was pacing furiously, massaging her temples.

"No, no! You can't be alive! You just can't! This changes everything!"

At first Erik remained in a pure state of shock, but the longer she repeated her refusal to believe his state of living, the more hurt and humiliated he became. She had sought him out, hadn't she? This was not his fault, not this time… He wanted her to leave. It was better to be in lonely solitude than bear this final rejection.

"I apologize if I've ruined your life, madame," he said, interrupting her mutters, "but if you just leave, you can pretend I'm dead again, if it makes you happy."

"No, now I can never be happy again!" She looked at him desperately. "Don't you see? I could never leave Raoul but I can't go through this life without you, knowing you're alive! Oh, this is all wrong, this is terrible, this is too much—"

"Why not?" Christine, who had begun to pace again, turned to him automatically. There was a moment's pause while she tried to decipher what exactly he was asking, but failed.

"I…beg your pardon?"

Erik stood up slowly, confused himself. "Why can you not… 'go through life' without me? I don't seem to understand you, my dear. You seem to have been doing just fine."

"Why?" The look on Christine's face informed him that he should know very well why. "Because I love you, of course." All the air left Erik's lungs and he mouthed silently; oh, there was no torture like a woman! Christine saw this and her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh my, I haven't said that before… It's been so long that I knew, I forgot you didn't…" Lowering her hand, she looked at him with the glimmer of passionate honesty in her eyes. "I love you. For a year I have thought of nothing but you, wanting you with me, aching to feel your arms around my waist, to hear your voice, to look into the well of your eyes again. I've loved you for so long and…" _And what?_ Christine thought, her words trailing off as Erik still stood there in stunned wonder. She had been prepared to give herself fully to him a year ago, but instead he destroyed everything that might have been between them, and everything that has been between she and Raoul, by… by… "You tricked me."

Erik's eyes had glazed over into introspection after her sudden proclamation, but after this one he was jerked back into the present. Christine's eyes had changed as well, and were now filled with a thick, noble anger. "What?" Erik spat in surprised response. How mad this whole meeting was!

"You tricked me! You've been alive all this time, letting me suffer! You must have heard me calling to you that day, waiting for you." Her body expanded in her rage and she gestured grandly and slowly, as if she was reciting a Shakespearean monologue to a packed house. "There I stood, on that bank with a shattered heart, and you just let me believe you dead! What am I, some kind of game to you? Do you delight in playing with my mind, using me as some kind of sick experiment in human nature?" As her voice raised to a yell, her eyes narrowed and she threw herself at him, her hands finding contact with his shoulders. Erik, surprised by her sudden physical outburst, felt his back hit the wall with a thud. A bubble of laughter escaped him.

"Who are you?" A proud smile played on his lips. This only seemed to aggravate Christine more, who was completely serious. Her hands remained steady against his shoulders and, though he could easily overpower her, he let her believe that she was in control.

"I am no longer the naïve girl you once knew."

"Oh, come now, Christine," he laughed. "You will always be the ingenue; you're eyes are forever wide."

"Now you mock me!" she cried, venom seeping off her tongue. "How can I love you, you, who care for no one's pain besides your own!"

Heat rose up his neck as anger invaded his blood. With calculated force, Erik broke Christine's hold and marched her backwards to the sofa. "I," he said calmly, keeping his hurt and anger out of his voice, "I care for no one's pain besides my own? Everything I've done has been for you." With a gentle push, he sent her to sitting on the sofa. Defiance had all but left Christine's eyes and was now slowly being replaced with creeping fear. Erik didn't care. She should be afraid. "Do you think it was easy for me, Christine? Listening to you call my name for two hours and not being able to respond? I tried to snuff out the sound of your voice, but nothing worked. I almost went to you—I was ready to forego any thoughts of what was best for you and take you into my arms, never to let go. But Nadir talked me out of it—he always was my conscience, you know—and he went to you instead. I am sorry I hurt you, but I am not sorry that I did what I did. For the first time in my life, I did what was right, _without_ thinking of myself. I cannot apologize for setting you free." He had surprised himself for being so collected when all the wanted to do was rage and rip her heart out for hurting him again. How dare she say those things! She knew nothing of pain, of disgrace, of inner torture!

Christine had retreated into her defense of child-like behavior, and why would she not? She had just received a lecture from the man who had once stood as a teacher and father to her. Erik's heart softened and he recognized that, no matter what she said, inside she was just as innocent and afraid as the day he first saw her. He was about to apologize, that back all that he had said, but Christine spoke before he got the chance.

"I just… I never believed that you could hurt me like you did. You betrayed not only my love, but yours, in some momentary fit of nobility. You had no right to decide what was best for me, and you do not have that right now."

"You're correct. I am not your husband; perhaps it would be best if you discussed your welfare with him. Shall I send for him? Fill him in on where your heart has lain all these months you shared his bed?" The gleam of water swelled in her eyes, but Erik could not care. Their bloody battle would not be settled now by an actress's tears.

"How can you say such hurtful things?"

"Simply by opening my mouth and forming words, which are made up of vowels and consonants. Come now, my dear, I do believe we had a lesson or two on the proper forms of vowel sounds; surely you haven't forgotten all I've taught you."

"The man I fell in love with would never had said such things to me."

"You lie. I have said and done far worse things to you than anything that has transpired here today. In my absence you have built me up to be perfect, Christine. You forget—I am far from that."

Her mouth dropped open in astonishment. "I never—!"

"Yes, you did and you always have! You have always wanted me to be something that I'm not: an Angel, a father, a ghost. A man who could give you the perfect, beautiful life you always dreamed of. But I am none of these things, Christine!" He was shouting now, his gentle façade shattered. He paced wildly, flinging his arms around in a most un-gentleman-like manner. Christine was withdrawing even further into herself, a half-released sob bursting forth every few seconds. Where had her power gone? When did she lose control and become this pathetic version of herself that she had learned to loathe? Erik continued his rant. "Do you love _me_ or the _idea_ of me? These hands, which you have apparently begged God to have round your waist, have been responsible for the deaths of hundreds. It may sound like a Romantic fallacy, loving the monster through all this faults, but it is not as simple as that! Love is work and sacrifice. I have given you everything I have and even things that were not mine to give. Letting you go was a sacrifice of everything I ever wanted. A sacrifice of my happiness." He bent down and extended his long, thin finger toward her nose. "For yours."

The parlor was once again filled with a pregnant pause, although this time it was not awkward, but contemplative. Erik walked away and positioned himself near the fireplace (yes, he had a fireplace, although it had no chimney and was never lit. As with many parts of his underground house, it had simply seemed like something that needed to be built). Christine fingered the fabric of her skirt, empty of rebuttals. She couldn't just stand up and walk out; she needed Erik to row her across the lake. Besides, that would mean giving up when nothing was solved, although at this precise minute, Christine couldn't see how anything could possibly be solved from this meeting of theirs. They were both too upset to find any solution, if such a thing even existed.

A soft sigh tickled Christine's ear and she raised her eyes from her lap. Erik was leaning his elbow against the mantle, his fingers raked through his hair, completely lost in thought. Christine forgave him everything instantly. His reasons for sending her away were not important. When she thought about it, she realized that she had, after all, spent the last year quite contently living with all the luxuries of the modern world with a man who loved her and never let her fall asleep cold. Christine knew that Erik had never felt that kind of warmth in the night. As much as it pained her to admit it, he had suffered more without her than she had without him. But even so, they had both longed for the other passionately for so long—they should be holding and comforting each other, not arguing. She stood up and smiled at him though he was not looking at her.

"Erik," she softly called. When their eyes met. Christine knew that he had been as hurt by her words as she had been by his. A knot tightened around her stomach and she couldn't form the words of love and passion that she meant to proclaim. Instead, she quickly said, "I said some very cruel things. Please forgive me."

His shoulders softened and he took a small step toward her. "If you will forgive me my harsh tones. I did not mean to lecture you."

"It's done." Christine could feel the peace in her heart radiate through her entire body. "And I also forgive you your words as well." The look that Erik gave her next crushed that peace.

"That is not yours to forgive. I did not offer an apology for my words."

"You don't regret anything that you said?"

"No. I meant every syllable." Christine must have appeared to burn with rage, for Erik silenced her before she could even think of anything to say. "Before you speak, Christine, let me point out that it is obvious that there will be no reconciliation here this morning. I propose that, before either of us is mortally wounded, we go our separate ways, calm down and meet again only when we've both decided what we actually have to say to each other. How does that sound?" During this speech, he had moved towards her; now, he was close enough to smell.

"Fine with me," she sneered as he had not thought she could and turned quickly away. But as she walked out the door, her mind was completely focused on keeping his scent within her nostrils.

**A/N:** So. That was it. Hate it? Think it okay or 'eh' (that's where I fall, 'eh')? Well, review anyway, please!

Before you leave my domain (mwah-ha-ha), I just want to comment on the movie. Falls on the ground kicking and screaming and crying 'WHY, GOD, WHY?!' That should suffice for now. I mean, obviously I'll buy the DVD, but I don't think I can ever sit through it again. Too horrible (and by the way, if Erik actually _did_ have a sword fight with Raoul—if he actually knew how to sword fight, which I don't think he does, but I'm pretty sure he could master it quickly—RAOUL WOULD NOT WIN. IN ANY LIFETIME. I was just waiting for one of them to scream out "HELLO! MY NAME IS INIGO MONTOYA. YOU KILLED MY FATHER. PREPARE TO DIE". That would have _made my day_. I just laughed that entire time… it was pathetic. I could go through a step-by-step, scene-by-scene analysis of what I HATED and what I though was okay and what I liked (very few… I liked Raoul during _All I Ask of You_ and… that may be it…). Hey, did the song _Phantom of the Opera_ remind anyone else of the old Sarah Brightman music video? On that note… review please! More to come! I'm leaving for Mexico (my mom's Christmas present—yay!!) on Januray 8th. Expect at least one more update before then. And I will be writing on my trip, so expect one as soon as I get back as well!! Merry Christmas again, everybody!


	9. Love That Saves

Disclaimer: I don't own these people!!!

A/N: Okay, I'm gonna keep this note short because this chapter is LONG, like the longest of the story so far. I hope you like it, I'm kinda proud of it actually. It's a step up from the last chapter. It took me over a week to get the middle right and… oh well, I promised to keep this short. Enjoy!! Please review!!

Chapter Eight: Love that Saves

Everything was silent as Christine and Erik made their way across the lake. Even the bow of the boat made not a sound as it cut through the calm black water. It was as if the air, the lake and even the boat itself were mourning for them, just as deeply as Christine felt her own heart mourn. The last time she had sat in this exact seat, she had been renewed and empowered, prepared to finally open her wings and become a butterfly. Now there were no words to describe the pain she felt. It was what the apostles might have felt had Jesus not risen from the dead as he had promised, and they were forced to live out the rest of their lives in tortured darkness without the promise of salvation. Every inch of her body screamed to tell him that¾ that he was her savior no matter what mistakes he made. She went over the words to say over and over in her head, but even when she had perfected them into the kind of speech which she knew would drive Erik to turn the boat around and take her into his arms, her tongue refused to move. Fear had once again isolated them from each other. It was an awful theme to have in a relationship, fear; Christine had not expected to still feel it as astutely as she did and was at once ashamed. Hadn't she grown up at all in the past year?

As always, Erik extended his gloved hand to Christine and helped her out of the boat. Their fingers met, sending electric sparks up Christine's arm, and as she stepped onto the shore, she let her fingers linger perhaps a moment too long on his, intending to give him hope. But as she turned around to thank him, he pushed off without a word and within a minute had vanished into the dark of the cellar. Christine sighed and began the trek up to the Rue Scribe. How had she been so confident walking down the same path a mere hour before? Didn't she know that her encounters with Erik never went the way she planned? Wasn't he always defensive and easily tempered and condescending?

And he had been so rude to her! What was it that she had loved? Was it even real at all? Had confusion and fear bred to form an emotion she could not name and so she had classified it love? Was it the last outburst in a long line of pity for the tragedy of a man?

But one question haunted Christine the worst of all, a question which led her to walk past her carriage and continue on to a nearby park, consumed in thought:

If her feeling for Erik had been false, has she ever loved at all?

Erik was lost within his own domain. He couldn't sit in his house after Christine left, with his thoughts as his only companions. Nadir's was quite out of the question; he was still much too unsettled by their last encounter to seek out another one. So he made his way across the lake, once again alone. He wandered through the dark passage ways, slinking through each trap door he came to, climbing and descending stairs wherever his feet found them. His eyes never left the ground; his thoughts only concerned colors and shapes. After a few hours or so of this behavior, when he finally lifted his gaze, he had no idea where he had led himself. The walls were familiar, but he could not place them. He could trace the curves of every stone with his eyes closed, but he could not say what floor he was on. And so he found himself lost within the structure he himself built, his homemade kingdom. At first he found it a trifle amusing, how easily he had been disheveled after this meeting with Christine, but his humor dissolved just as easily into anger. What a week he was having! It was all so ridiculous¾ his situation was ridiculous, Christine was ridiculous. Most of all _he was_ ridiculous. His aggression streamed down from his brain to his fingertips. He grabbed the nearest object, a long forgotten glass tray used in a long forgotten opera, and hurled it against the wall. The sound was sufficiently loud enough the calm his rage momentarily and with clarity he decided that he should probably find his way back home. A stairway and a few feet later, he found himself on his well-trod road to the Rue Scribe. He laughed, not lost at all.

The sound did not echo long, for a moment after it was released, a man emerged from the shadows. He was tall and broad and carved in filth. Protruding from his dirty fist was a long, gleaming blade. He held it lightly and easily and obviously not for the first time. So the two experienced killers faced off, both armed, though only one showed his weapon.

"What are you doing here?" the man asked.

"I was about to ask the same of you," Erik replied calmly.

"I work here," he lied, raising the blade an inch.

"If you worked here," Erik commented, slowly beginning to circle the stranger (this was his home and he would not lose his command to a dirty convict, for that must be what he was), "you would know who I am and what I am doing here. I would put that away, young man."

The man hesitated, visibly unsettled by Erik's fearlessness. "Give me all your money," he stuttered, taking a step towards Erik, who had just completed a quarter circle.

"And you'll, what, let me walk away without harm?"

"Yes, yes," he replied, extending his left hand greedily. He was breathing hard.

"I doubt that," A half-circle. Erik smiled beneath the mask. "Let me guess. You're on the run from something, I assume it is the law and I assume it is on account of that knife." The man shifted uncomfortably. "You found the gate unlocked and wandered into what you probably thought seemed a nice place to live temporarily." Three-quarters. "But I live here as well, and have for some time and do not mean to share it with anyone else." The man opened his mouth to speak, but Erik continued. "You believe that you are talented enough to kill me easily. I assure you, you are not." Erik completed the circle and turned to face him. "So you had best be going, monsieur, or I will have to take action." As Erik slowly reached into his cloak, the man turned around to leave. But after three paces, he swung around and charged. He was less than a yard away from Erik when he noticed the noose around his neck and, a groan later, he fell to the ground.

Erik looked down at the body and, for the first time that day, felt a stinging fear in his stomach. It was more than sadness, more like he had broken a promise to someone. He hadn't, he was sure that this kill fell in the category of self-defense. But this was the first life he had taken in over a year, and he felt newly-damned all over again.

He sighed and bet down to retrieve his lasso from around the dead man's neck. As his fingers pulled at the knot, the sound of footsteps crept up from behind him. Erik whipped around, rope ready at his fingertips once more, and looked into the face of a frantic Wesley Pryce.

"The gate was open," Wesley explained quickly.

"Yes," Erik said dryly, coiling his rope. "No doubt your mistress neglected to lock it when she left here earlier." Wesley's eyes closed in relief as he pressed both hands to his heart.

"So she had arrived here?" Wesley asked breathlessly.

"Yes, but left shortly after."

"How long?"

"A few hours ago," Erik replied impatiently. He took a step towards the servant, whose hands were now plowing fervently through his hair. "Why do you ask?"

"She left late this morning and was due to be back at the house by four this afternoon, but never came. Around seven a groomsman was sent out and found her carriage a few blocks from here. The driver had fallen asleep and not seen anything for hours. Her husband is in a panic¾ it's not like her to be out so late, and never alone. She had told him that she was going shopping, but of course, I knew where she really way, so I hurried over here and… But she's not with you." Wesley's eyes strung with held-back tears. If anything had happened to her, it was all his fault. He had known where she had gone missing.

Erik had begun to pace. "What time is it now?"

"After ten."

"And does anyone know you're here?"

"No¾ I volunteered my services to help search for her. They only know that I am out looking."

Erik faced him tensely. "Go back and attend to your master. Make sure he eats something and if he becomes too panicked, a drop of laudanum will calm him for awhile."

"I have to help look for her!"

"Leave Christine to me." He said stately. "If I don't find her, I will find you." Without another word, Erik strode off quickly, and it was only then that Wesley's eyes fell on the body laying in front of him.

It was completely dark when Erik walked through the open gate and hurried down the street. Although his first instinct was to panic and rage about how this was all his fault, Erik decided immediately that he would be most useful to Christine if he were calm and clear-minded. Christine had made it to the street safely, he was sure of that. Not only was the fate unlocked (Christine had no doubt forgotten to lock it amidst her emotional blur upon exit), but the knife his attacker had used was spotless; he had not met with her.

She was not on a street, for she would have been able to find a carriage to take her home in time. So Erik headed to the nearest park and, sure enough, within a devastatingly long half-hour, he found her standing in a small clearing about seven yards from the back, which in the dark might as well have been a mile. He called to her softly and, with one look at him, she fell into his arms, trembling. It was only as he held her that Erik realized how truly worried he had actually been. And it was only within his embrace that Christine realized that all her questions were nonsense. She had always loved him, and always would.

"You're not hurt?" Erik asked tenderly, pulling away from the warmth of her body.

"No," Christine replied, choking back a sob. "Only a little bewildered."

"You were frightened of the dark."

"No," she repeated, wiping her cheeks. "Not of the dark." She paused here and laughed. "I just don't understand it. I've visited this park for years, since I started at the conservatory, and yet, somehow, I ended up¾ "

"Lost." Erik finished. Christine looked up at him.

"Yes." She smiled softly and they relaxed into each other's eyes. "Thank you for finding me."

He waved his hand to dismiss her thanks. "Your husband is most worried about you, or so I've heard. You'd best be getting home."

Christine grasped his elbow fiercely. "No, please, Erik. I can't see Raoul in the state I'm in. Please, let me go home with you, if only for a little while. To collect myself, you see."

Erik could not resist her. Not after the fright he just had, so he did not push hard when he said, "It is very late."

"I don't care. Another hour or two won't make any difference. I'll make up some store. Don't send me away again so soon, Erik," she pleaded. He stiffly nodded and led her out of the clearing.

Once they reached the path, Christine composed herself rather quickly and her insatiable curiosity became once more apparent.

"How did you know where to find me?" she asked.

"Deductive reasoning."

"How did you know I was missing?"

"Wesley," he answered.

"Ah, yes," she said, growing a little stiff herself. "Do explain that one to me, if you will." And he did, leaving out not one detail about his arrangement with Wesley. Though it may not have portrayed Erik in the best way, he felt that it was more important that Christine continue to feel at ease and trust Wesley. Christine walked silently alongside him as he told his story, listening patiently, but once he was finished, she had a few more pressing questions to ask.

"So he comes here, to the Rue Scribe, with notes about what I've been doing and…things like that?"

"Precisely."

"And he does this for you, without question."

"Yes," Erik replied nervously. Christine's voice had begun to quiver and he could tell she was about to draw attention to herself. He supposed that he should have waited to have this conversation until after they had reached the safety of his house.

"So you threatened my servant into passing along private information to you," Christine continued, the volume of her voice raising uncontrollably. "I wonder, what else did you do? Did you hurt Wesley? Is he missing a toe or any other part?"

"Christine," Erik hissed, his eyes darting around rapidly. She was yelling now, and people had begun to turn and look. "You must—"

"Or!" she cried. "Do you have the entire stable in your employ, so that you might know where I go each evening and which roads I take to church! Are there whispers among my stable boys about 'The Phantom of the Water Trough'? Shall I warn my horses to keep their hooves at the level of their eyes?"

"Hush!" Erik growled, clasping a hand over Christine's mouth and pulling her close to his chest. Her eyes glared at him with fire, but when he uncovered her mouth, she did not say another word. Instead she looked to where Erik pointed. Five of her husband's servants stood in front of her carriage discussing something intensely, and every few seconds scanning the open street. Christine turned back to Erik.

"Should we cross to the other side of the street?" she asked quietly.

"No," he replied, still staring at the men, "we'll walk right by them."

"What?" Christine exclaimed.

"Hush!" he silenced her again. "They'll be watching the opposite side closely. But no one ever sees what is right in front of their eyes. But you must be quiet."

Christine linked her arm through Erik's and the two set off walking evenly down the street.

"Do not think that I will stop yelling at you just because I have to be quiet," Christine whispered harshly. Erik let out a sigh, but beneath the mask he was smiling. "You said before you thought it best if we had no contact. Why then did you go to such great lengths to get information about my life?"

"In case you needed me," Erik whispered back.

"I needed you then! Where were you as I stood on the edge of the lake that day? Huddled in your house pretending to be dead!" They were passing the carriage now. Christine bowed her head to the right, pretending to cough, and Erik lifted his cloak up, shielding her from view, acting as it he was pulling his cloak straight. None of the men looked at them once.

"Christine, my dear, we've been over this before." Erik guided her around a corner and held her still. "I was under the impression that you were coming with me, as you said, to collect yourself. If your heart is set on getting upset at me further, I would rather not hear it and you might as well go home and rant in the privacy of your own bedroom." He walked away and forced himself, like Orpheus should have, not to look behind him, but trust that she would follow.

He held open the Rue Scribe gate and for a tense moment, his heart sank. But soon enough, she appeared, arms crossed and looking straight ahead. "This does not mean I'm not angry," she said, sneaking a glance out of the corner of her eye, "but I can't stay angry forever." She turned and tenderly traced the edge of the mask with her finger, smiling. "And I truly did miss you."

Erik broke their contact as he closed the gate behind them and locked it securely in place. They had already begun to walk toward the lake before Erik spoke in response. "I look at you know, after a day full of pain and surprises, and, while other women would have fallen into a thousand pieces, you are standing tall and strong. You're glowing. It makes me think that…perhaps it's not me you missed, but excitement, adventure. You were not born to sit still in some parlor and smile. Your head is far too full of pretty stories."

"I am going to ignore that comment, which we both know is not true," Christine replied immediately, "except to say that a story filled with deceit, betrayal, kidnapping and murder is not usually considered 'pretty'." She paused and looked at him intently before continuing. "You don't have to, you know."

"What?"

"Attack, kill, be ever on the defense."

"Yes, I do. You do not understand."

"No one is out to kill you anymore; everyone thinks you're dead! Once you stop carrying around that lasso of yours everywhere you go, you would—" Here, Christine screamed, having just fallen over a dead body. Erik silently cursed himself for not taking care of it earlier. At least the rats hadn't found it yet.

"Do you see this, Christine?" Erik cried over Christine's gasps, gesturing madly to the corpse. "This is what I have to do! Do you think that he hesitated to try to do this to me? The answer is in his hand—see? A blade, poised to strike. No. He didn't hesitate. So why should I?"

"Terrorizing servants isn't self-defense." She answered, having gained control over her fear.

"That again." Erik pulled Christine off the ground roughly, clutching her wrist. He extended one long finger toward her nose and glared at her. "Don't speak," he spit.

He didn't address her again until they were back in his parlor. Christine was sitting on the couch once more. Erik had just thrown his cloak down on a chair and was storming past her towards the kitchen. "Tea?" he called sharply. Christine chose to ignore that comment as well.

"We can never be together if you don't stop killing."

Erik snapped around to face her. "We can never be together anyway! You're married, I'm deranged—"

"You're not deranged," she interrupted, a smile beginning to form on the left side of her mouth.

"To the world I am!" He began to pace in front of her. "I live in a flat beneath an Opera House! Next to a lake! I have more knowledge in my head than most of the scientists and doctors in Europe and yet I am a professional ghost! My lone friend is a Persian in exile and the only thing," he continued, his tone softening, "the only thing that keeps me alive is a former opera-diva who is now married to the Vicomte de Chagny and who wouldn't leave when I sent her away for the better good. If that's not deranged, I'll be damned."

"Erik," Christine soothed. Her voice was soft and warm, and with that one word, he was undone, transported instantly back two years, once again a puddle at her feet begging for forgiveness. _It is true, Christine. I am not an Angel nor a Ghost… I am Erik…_ He melted to the floor beside her, crying silently. She guided his head to her lap and placed a tender palm upon his skull, her fingers gently stroking his hair.

"I live in the dark," he said quietly, broken and tired, but finally calm in her touch. "You are a child of the light, fit for Angels, not devils."

"I don't mind the dark. It's comfortable, releasing."

"Rats live in the dark."

"So do pearls." Erik raised his head to look at her smiling down at him. He stretched a trembling hand to her cheek, but withdrew it a moment before contact and hurled himself to the opposing end of the room. He turned his back to her, took out his handkerchief and lifted the mask to dry his tear-streaked face.

"Erik, turn around," he heard her call.

"No," he protested. Not this humiliation again.

"Please. There is no need to hide from me." He was in no state to argue, so instead he turned slowly around to face her, exposing his naked face to her.

"Well," he shrugged, "what do you think now?" Christine's stomach lurched in automatic revulsion, but she quickly tempered it. Not a single part of her face flinched as she looked directly in his eyes.

"It's not your most attractive feature."

Erik laughed softly as he replaced the mask. "I seem to have no clever way to respond to that."

Christine shook her head slightly. "You don't need one."

"Where do we go from here?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes," he said as he turned around to face the wall. "You do not understand that it is even less probable than it was a year ago for us to have even a little happiness together."

"Forget about that and turn around a look at me." He complied and found her standing now, her hands hanging lightly at her sides. Her eyes pressed into him. "We can be happy right here and now. If you love me, tell me you love me. You don't need clever twists or phrases, just tell me what you feel."

"I love you." His heart was pounding so hard that he could feel the vibrations of it from his feet to his throat.

"And I love you," she said simply. For a moment they just looked at each other, miles apart, and in the next the mask was of and they were pressed against each other, groping furiously as their mouths greedily took what was finally theirs. Neither had ever felt a hunger like this before. Erik wrapped his arms around her back to seize her, pulling her even closer to his chest. Were he thinking rationally, he would have punished himself for acting so fiercely with her, but rationality had long since left his brain. They fueled a flame between them and with each second it became even brighter; the only sensible thought Erik could muster was to wonder what force could possibly extinguish such a flame. He worried for a short moment how to end so fierce a kiss, what to do or what to say, but then lost himself in the taste of her precious lips, letting go of everything except the sense.

But Christine knew where passion led a man and a woman and, feasting upon his treasured however deformed mouth, unconsciously began to unbutton his shirt. Erik failed to notice this new transgression until he felt the heat of her hand against his bare chest. His eyes opened instantaneously and he pulled her wrists away, the flame suddenly snuffed.

"No," he said firmly.

Christine looked up into his hideous face and, bringing it toward hers, brushed her lips against his eyelids. "Erik," she said soothingly, "don't be worried. I know what I'm doing. I want this. And besides," she continued, her mouth turning upwards in a playful smile, "now I get to be the teacher."

She brought his lips to hers once more and Erik surrendered them over. He poured a life's worth of wants and needs into that kiss and she gladly accepted them, sending back a flood of healing and love. But as soon as he felt her palm on his flesh, he pulled away again.

"No," he repeated, his voice strangely hollow. He turned away from her and placed both hands against the wall firmly, as if to steady himself. "Enough. Go back to your husband; go on your honeymoon. Do not come here again when you return. Perhaps we may be able to have sporadic moments of happiness, but it will just hurt all the fiercer once you've gone again." Christine didn't want to believe that, but she knew he was right. Still, to never see him again… She could not stop herself from arguing.

"What if I refuse? What if I come right back here?"

"I'll move. And then you'll really never see me again. At least this way…if you ever do need me, you will be able to find me."

Christine was stunned into silence. For a second time now, she had given herself over to him and for a second time he refused her. She wanted to tell him that he had no right to do this to her, that she was offering him everything she had to give. But all she could do was move silently to gather her cloak.

"Before you go," he said softly, his voice regaining its natural timbre, "will you promise me something, Christine? One small favor before we never see each other again?"

"Anything," she replied, a little too quickly. His back was still turned to her, so she stared at the back of his head, silently willing him to come to her. She noticed that the mask was back in place; she hadn't even felt it leave her hand.

"You are stopping in England on your…trip, am I right?"

"London, yes."

"I would like you to seek out Frederick Garland, a photographer. I believe he works on Burton Street. Ask him to put you in contact with Winifred Evans, a housemaid. Then invite her to come and work at your estate here."

"Who is she?"

"She is no one of consequence to either of us, but I believe she will do very nicely in your employ. Promise me not to forget."

"I promise." Christine stood still a moment longer, waiting for him to say something more, but he neither spoke nor turned around. So, tears clouding her vision, she left his house and rowed herself across the lake, painfully aware that her last memory of him would contain a promise not meant for her and the image of his back turned against her. He hadn't even said goodbye.

A/N: Phew! I told you it was long! Like it? Just a bit? Tell me about it, please! Review! They're easy to write and really mean a lot! Hope you liked this chapter because, in case you couldn't tell from the text itself, this is the last time Erik and Christine will be seeing each other (…for awhile. Please, who do you take me for, Andrew Lloyd Webber?). She's off to meet my Frederick! (Not related to Frederick Lenfent, from _Reality Issues_. They have the same name because I love Frederick Garland and named Lenfent after him because they're both wonderful. And Fred's just a name that I instantly trust.) Nadir's coming back, though not in any better shape than when we left him. With Christine gone, Erik is able to figure out what's ailing him, just as Nadir is ready to explain all. Well, just wait and see. Oh, and Wesley's got some important stuff coming up eventually, but I bet you can tell that from the last few paragraphs of this chapter! Ain't Erik a doll? wink


	10. I Raised Up the Mountains

Disclaimer: Since it's been so long since I updated, I'll reiterate: I do not own _The Phantom of the Opera_ or any of it's characters (primarily Christine, Erik, Nadir and Raoul). I do own, however, Wesley Pryce (though the name belongs to Joss Whedon, yadda yadda yadda).

A/N: …Hi… Okay, so it's been a long time since I updated. I know. The funny thing? I've had this written for awhile. But don't I always say that? I'm home from college (halfway done, _can you believe it!_) and ready to get this baby roaring. …I already have what I consider an amazing idea for a sequel. But first, gotta finish this one. First on the list, HAPPY BIRTHDAY (and a month) to _Holy Darkness_! Yayyy! One year old. Aw, I love it. Secondly, I want to remind everyone what's happened so far so that you all don't have to go back and re-read the story (but it would be wonderful if you just wanted to!). So…

Previously in _Holy Darkness_…

Nadir fell under another one of his memory loss spells and accused Erik of murdering his son. As Erik fled his house, he was spotted by Christine. She then also discovered his connection to Wesley and angrily went to confront Erik. He, however, was waiting for her, and after a fiery conversation, Christine leaves again, only to get lost in a nearby park. When she doesn't come home, Raoul sends all his servants out to look for her. Wesley goes directly to Erik, who promptly finds her with his wonderful Erik-sense. She returns with him to his house and they have another conversation, this one much more deep and meaningful, which climaxes in a kiss. Erik then sends her away, and, confused and upset by the dead end in their relationship, she leaves, promising not to return again.

And without any further ado…

Chapter Nine: I Raised Up the Mountains

The house was cloaked in silence when Christine entered in the latest hour of the night, or perhaps the earliest hour of the morning, however one views it. The door seemed to echo as she closed it behind her, pulsing through the foyer and along the hall. Then all was still, not a sound in response. She realized guiltily that the household servants were most likely all out in search of her. Quickly, she made her way through the empty halls to her husband's study, where she had no doubt he was pacing up and down, waiting for any news of her. She opened the door cautiously, so as not to startle him, her alibi fully formed and on her tongue. But the room was empty. Christine felt her brow wrinkle and her lips purse. She had not expected him to be anywhere else. She looked around the darkened room, at the fireplace ashes, the papers covering the always organized desk and the large dents in the eat of the easy chair. He had been here, probably for quite some time. Perhaps he had gotten tired of waiting and went to search for her as well. With no where else to go, Christine shrugged off her cloak and tiptoed upstairs to the guest room she and Raoul had been using while their own room was being restored. And there he was, lying fast asleep on top of all their bedding, still fully dressed. He must have fallen asleep our of pure exhaustion. She dropped her cloak over a chair and crawled across the bed to lie next to him, their noses barely two inches apart.

"Raoul," she called softly. A strand of blonde hair had fallen across his eyes and she gently tucked it behind his ear. It was getting very long, she thought, and she must have it trimmed before they left Paris. Her hand glided over his smooth forehead and down to the rough stubble over his jaw. It had been a long time since she had watched him sleep. She had forgotten just how beautiful he looked. Peaceful. One would never be able to tell from his face the stress he had just endured; his mouth turned upward even in sleep; his face relaxed completely without a sign of a single tension line. She hated to stir him, but knew that he would be exceptionally angry with her in the morning if she did not. "Raoul," she called again, a little louder. Not an eyelash moved. "Raoul." Christine grew anxious. Ever since the fire, she had been waking up in the middle of the night, nauseous with the fear that he had died beside her in the darkness. She would press her ear to his breast and listen to his heart beat, but was never convinced he was fully alive until she felt him move to accommodate her. Only then could she return to sleep, soothed by the steady lullaby of his heart.

"Raoul!" she cried, her panic fluttering in her chest. "Raoul! Raoul! Raoul!" Christine shoved her palms against his chest, pushing him onto his pack. His arm dangled limply off the bed and she knew he was dead. She opened her mouth to scream when Raoul rolled himself back onto his side, mumbling incomprehensible nothings. (It seems, dear Reader, that Wesley had overestimated the amount of laudanum to give him.) Christine gulped back a sob. She slid off the bed and covered her face with her hands, determined not to cry for yet another time today.

_Sleep_, she thought, smoothing her skirt, _I just need to sleep_. She quickly changed into her night dress and got into bed, shivering under the heavy bedding, willing herself to sleep. Of course, as most know, Sleep is the greatest of all teases; she overcomes you when you least want her and smugly refuses you when you beg for her mercy. So it was with Christine, who lay completely awake, betrayed not only by Sleep, but also by her mind, which could focus on nothing but Erik.

Thinking back on the evening's events, Christine couldn't help but blush. How incredibly forward she had been! It was actually embarrassing even now; she couldn't bear to think of it. Of course, that just meant that she could think of nothing else. The scene played again in her head and every remembered touch brought a brighter shade of red to her cheeks until they felt like they would melt under the heat. She smothered her face with a pillow and laughed at how ridiculously foolish she had acted, and then laughed harder at how ridiculously foolish she was being now.

What must he think of her? What would Raoul have done if she had approached him in that manner? He would probably have been incredibly confused; Christine had never initiated their love-making. True, she had never been opposed to it, indeed she often craved his touch--oh, this was too embarrassing to even think!

But even though she still blushed in embarrassment, Christine really did not know why she did. Erik was alive, their love finally reciprocated in the present. The embodiment of the being she worshiped for a year stood before her and she wanted him. Her blood had been on fire and she had acted without fear. But perhaps she had gone too far. Erik had been incredibly upset, but still ever the gentleman. Had he not… She must remember that he is just a child in such things, needing to be coddled and stroked and tended to. He might have always seen her as the child, but she thought that he was, what with his tantrums and… Perhaps they were both children, two children who needed each other to grow up. Next time--

_No_, she thought. _There will be no 'next time'. Erik will see to that._ Sharply, Christine threw her legs over the side of the bed and sat up. Her attempts to sleep were failing; she was much too restless. She would go and drink some tea, to calm down, and hopefully fall sleep after that. She slid on her dressing gown and made her way down to the kitchen.

Christine was surprised to discover that she was not the only one awake at this late hour. Wesley was likewise surprised. The two stared at each other uncomfortably for a moment before Wesley rose from the table and bowed slightly.

"Welcome home, madame," he said nervously. He was unsure how angry at him she still was. "May I get you anything?"

"A cup of tea, please," she replied, her chin lifting without her knowledge. Wesley immediately began preparing her request as Christine sat down across from Wesley's own teacup. He kept his back to her as he worked, which was perfectly fine with Christine, who had no idea what to say to him. She wasn't entirely pleased with what he did, but after talking to Erik, she could understand why. He was, after all, just trying to do what was right for Raoul and herself. Still, she would not admit she had been wrong. Had Erik not kissed her back so fiercely, perhaps she would have thanked him for shielding her from that pain. No, she could not thank him, but she could forgive him and lull his own guilt.

He spoke first, his back still turned. "I am very happy you made it home safely, madame. Everyone was very worried."

"Everyone but you, I presume. You knew where I was." Christine saw a shiver run across Wesley's shoulders. "Turn around, please, Wesley. I have spoken to enough backs for one night." He complied, and met her eyes, prepared to take whatever punishment she had thought of for his betrayal. Instead, she smiled slightly and said, "Thank you." Unsure what to say, Wesley brought her tea to her and stood aside until Christine asked him to sit and finish his own. As he sat across from her, he felt a wave of relief; it seems she had forgiven him. After sipping her tea, she continued speaking.

"Erik told me everything." She pounced on the subject directly. "I understand why you did what you did, and I thank you for keeping my family safe." Wesley bowed his head slightly, and when he raised it he found a single tear gracefully skimming Christine's left cheek. He watched it fall and as soon as it left her skin, new tears began to silently streak her face.

"Madame," he said, reaching his hand to her, "are you¾ "

"I'm fine, Wesley," she protested, her voice strong, "or if I'm not yet, I will be. You were right to keep him from me. Together all we cause is pain and suffering to ourselves and everyone close to us. And now I have this wound, this open, stinging wound, and it will never heal because I know he's alive and I can never see him again! He's forbidden it! Wesley was speechless. His hand retreated back to his teacup slowly, and Christine buried her face in her hands to sob. When her voice rung out again, however, her voice remained as steady as if she were merely commenting on the weather.

"Oh, God, am I an adulteress? I am in love with two men; doesn't that mean in everything I do I betray one of them? And what is that anyway, adultery? Is it a physical act, or a spiritual one? Do I wrong my husband because I have given my soul to another? Or do I betray Erik because I promised my heart and body to Raoul?" She looked up at Wesley, her eyes seeking answers he didn't have. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a worn piece of paper.

"I don't have any of the answers you seek," he started, honestly. "I can't pretend to know what you're feeling right now. But I do know about loss and…well…" He slid the paper across the table and under Christine's fingers.

"What's this?"

"A great English poet who died too young, as they all seem to do, wrote this. It's soothed my mind for years. Can you read English?" Christine nodded and picked up the paper.

Music, when soft voices die  
Vibrates in the memory--  
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,  
Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,  
Are heaped for the beloved's bed;  
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone  
Love itself shall slumber on.  
-Percy Bysshe Shelley

"It's lovely," she said after a moment, and tried to hand it back to him, but he refused.

"I know it by heart," he said, smiling, tears in his own eyes now. "And it seems you need it more than I do."

"Thank you," she replied, holding the poem tenderly in her lap. A moment passed between the two, and no one knows what that moment entailed besides Christine and Wesley. It was a strong moment, whatever it was, enticing Wesley to break the line of their relationship and reach over to place his hand on hers. Christine smiled back and, once the moment had passed, laughed and broke the bond of their hands to rub her eyes.

"I'm really quite tired," she yawned, "but my mind won't let me sleep. Raoul, however," she laughed again, "Raoul is so soundly asleep that he won't be stirred."

"Oh, that…" Wesley said, blushing slightly. "I may have given him too much laudanum… I mean, I didn't know…"

Christine lifted an eyebrow. "Do I even need to ask who told you to do such a thing?"

"Probably not. Would you… like me to do the same for you?"

"Thank you, Wesley, that would probably work. Not as much as you gave my husband, though, please." And as he left to fetch the drug, Christine thought of Erik, one last time.

* * *

Erik, however, was not thinking of her. Or at least he was telling himself that he was not thinking of her. After Christine left, Erik swam across the lake and retrieved the boat, changed his clothes and, without even attempting to go to sleep, began to mix laudanum into his own drink. He was much more skilled at this process than Wesley. Laying down on the couch (he was unable to set a foot in either bedroom in his house), he drank the contents of his glass in one swallow and closed his eyes. He felt his mind begin to clear almost immediately. As the drug swam through his veins it pushed aside all thoughts of Christine. Christine with her dark hair and illuminating smile. Christine's lips on his own, Christine's mouth as it formed the words "I love you". Pushed aside. Stored away. Christine sitting stunned and not moving. Nadir sitting, unable to move. Pushed away. 

Nadir.

Nadir coughing. Nadir screaming.

Nadir unable to realize who Erik was.

And then he knew, knew at once, what was wrong with Nadir. Oh God.

Sleep was upon him before he could fight it.

* * *

The next morning, when Erik awoke, he left immediately for Nadir's house. Unable to hail a carriage on the busy Parisian streets, he began to run, taking no precautions to cover his mask. Let them gasp, let them stare. He had no time to concern himself with them. Arriving, he pushed by Darius (who had answered the door) and ran through the small house, until he came to Nadir's bedroom. He flung open the door, winded from the long run. Nadir was sitting up in his bed, eating breakfast from a tray. He did not seem at all surprised to see Erik. 

"Good morning," he said cheerily, slowly bringing a spoon to his mouth.

Erik was still panting. "Is it…" Before the word left his mouth he prayed silently he was wrong. "Syphilis?" Nadir turned his head toward him and stared. After a moment, however, the edges of his lips pulled upward like two marionettes into a grim smile. He nodded twice.

"I've always said, there is nothing in the world like a Persian concubine. It's your Parisian whores;" he said, lowering his voice to a whisper, like a child divulging a secret, "they're dirty." He turned back to his breakfast. Although he had guessed, Erik was still stunned. He could only move to sit in a chair near the door and stare at the carpet. He began to grieve. He was going to lose his only friend, the one person he trusted. He would die, and Erik would truly be all alone. He couldn't bear to look at him, the diseased body which held the most courageous and genuine soul Erik had ever known.

Without looking up, Erik whispered, "How long?"

"A year and a half since the diagnosis, but who knows how much longer before," he answered conversationally. "And don't say that you would have noticed--you were far too preoccupied with you-know-who in the beginning and later, well, I made sure to hide it from you. The trembling of my fingers was never too great and I tried mostly to stay seated when you visited. It surprised me that you hadn't noticed when I stopped going to your house, but I thought it all for the best if you didn't worry about me." He sipped his tea slowly and raised his eyes toward Erik with the cup still between his lips. "What, if I may ask, tipped you off to my…condition?"

"Just a moment of clear headedness," Erik replied flippantly, although his stomach had tightened at the thought of truthfully answering that question. He hated to think of the words Nadir had spoken to him that morning; there was no power in Heaven of Earth that could make him repeat that damning accusation back to the man who had said it. Erik met Nadir's eyes and knew at once that he didn't believe his explanation. As his friend opened his mouth to speak, Erik prayed that he would ask him anything but why he had left so suddenly two days ago.

"Yesterday?" Erik nodded, realizing that he was holding his breath. "It's not like you to be patient," he said, his mouth hinting at a smirk. "Why, may I ask, did you not barge in here immediately? What kept you?" Erik released his breath and unclenched his fists. He could talk about his encounter with Christine for days as long as he need not speak of that other subject.

"Christine," he shrugged. "She discovered I wasn't dead."

Nadir nodded. "I admit I've been waiting for that. What happened?"

"What would you expect from two people who never decided what the nature of their relationship was? We fought, quite rabidly I must say… By God, I think she even hit me. Huh. And, in the end, we decided it was better that she continue her life, pretending I was dead. She leaves soon to go abroad with her husband." Erik spoke easily, detached. He didn't tell Nadir of the intimacy he and Christine had shared; he knew that by not saying anything, Nadir would infer it. He must have noticed his detachment, but merely continued nodding, accepting whatever information Erik put forth.

"I imagined as such." There was a slight pause in the room as each man delt with his own thoughts until Erik suddenly spoke rapidly.

"You must ease my mind on one more thing, Nadir."

"Yes?"

Erik took his time to ask his final question. "How long do…you have?"

"Oh," he replied with a chuckle and a wave of his hand, "years. Years." Erik returned his smile.

Neither man believed that.

A/N: So…How'dja like it? I know it's short, I'm sorry. But after re-reading it, it's a pretty good chapter to have after a long hiatus. It reviews things pretty well, no? Okay, PLEASE review! And to mirror the Previously on…

Next Time In _Holy Darkness_…

Christine and Raoul begin their honeymoon… Italy first. Anyone we know been there? But eventually off to LONDON to complete Erik's request.


	11. Guide the Morning Star

Disclaimer: I don't own blah blah blah.

A/N: Hello everyone! This chapter has been written for awhile, I'm sorry it took me so long to update it—blame it on my sister, who, every time I found a time to type it up, would _have_ to go on the computer. But now I've moved out of my house and into my summer housing (free housing comes with my summer job! Yay!) and by the time I'm home again it will be almost time to go back to New York. Anyway, here it is.

A warning before you begin: There is a LOT of Christine/Raoul fluff in this chapter. Sorry Raoul-haters. I had to do it. There's also no Erik in this chapter shields herself. Now don't get upset! I'm not done with him yet (obviously—if you want to know, _Holy Darkness _will have 20 chapters in total, not counting the prologue), but right now the plot lies with Christine. He'll be in the next chapter (though not for a very long time, I'm afraid). So anyway, please don't hate me (or Christine) for what she does in this chapter. I listened to a lot of All I Ask of You (and I do allude to that—catch it!) and read some Leroux to prepare for this, because we all know that I don't usually write Raoul well—or at all. My usual tactic (case in point: _Reality Issues_) is to stick him just outside of the actual events. It worked for most of _HD_ as well—but now I feel like he's a very integral part of the story and I've been denying him his place, see? So, I hope you Raoul-haters like my Raoul even a little bit, and here's a little present to you Raoul-lovers from an E/C kinda girl.

* * *

**Chapter Ten: Guide the Morning Star**

The story went as such: Exhausted from a full day of dealing with aggressive shop owners, Christine found her way to a small park to relax and fell asleep quite innocently. When she awoke, it was very dark and she immediately hailed a carriage and returned home.

Christine assumed that everyone was too relieved that she had returned home safely to question the validity of her story. Raoul was so relieved that, when he had woken up that morning, he had thrown himself on top of her, knocking her out of her drugged sleep, praising the Lord as if he had just been granted all the wealth in the world. Christine's story had hardly left her lips before he was racing around the house, waking the servants, proclaiming their mistress's return. It was not until lunch that Raoul calmed down enough to truly converse with his wife. Still, he could not stop beaming at her from across the dining room table.

"Raoul," she eventually said, when she could stand his tireless grin no longer, "stop it."

"What?" he asked innocently, his eyes rounding like two full moons. Christine couldn't help but laugh.

"You're looking at me as if I were the Virgin Mary." Raoul tossed down his fork and walked down the length of the table to her, presenting himself wildly. "Oh, the Mother of God has nothing," he said, kneeling before her, "next to you." Christine laughed again and clamped her hand over her husband's mouth.

"Hush, you great fool," she whispered playfully. "What you say is sacrilegious." Raoul leaned in very close and kissed the palm she had laid over his lips.

"I don't care," he whispered back, and, with further grandness, picked his wife up and swung her around. Christine's laugh was first one of surprise and then one of pure delight. Her arms encircling Raoul's neck, she tilted back her head and closed her eyes, feeling the air blow through her hair. She felt sublimely happy, a happiness she hadn't felt for years, since before her father died. When she was returned to her seat, she not longer sat in the chair herself; no indeed, for Raoul had usurped her place and she was now sitting securely on his lap. As they sat laughing, the words just flew from her lips.

"Will you marry me?" He looked at her quizzically, a smirk playing upon his mouth.

"Well, it shall be quite a disappointment to all my other lovers, but yes, I think I might be willing." Raoul leaned in slowly to kiss her, but just when their lips began to brush, he pulled away. "But," he said, raising his right index finger, "you've only yourself to blame if I grow tired of you after a month." She flattened his finger with her palm and quickly pressed her lips against his. He was very talented, this husband of hers, in helping her forget. For a moment, Christine felt a pang of guilt, but as Raoul opened his mouth with hers, she threw that emotion behind her. This is what Erik wanted, was it not? She was not deceiving anyone; a mother can love her two children equally with her whole heart, why couldn't she? And she did love both Raoul and Erik with every part of her being, the same amount of love, just in different ways. Had she a choice again, perhaps she would have chosen differently, but there was no choice for her to make. It had been made for her, once again.

Raoul pulled tenderly away from her lips and smiled up at her, tucking her hair behind her ear. And as she looked down into his beautiful marble blue eyes, Christine's heart melted. If she couldn't be with Erik, she wouldn't want anyone else but Raoul. He was the best person she knew; his devotion would never fade and she was sure that she could love him for the rest of his life. She bent down to him and kissed his temple gently.

"Last night," she said softly, truthfully, pulling herself back once more to look into his eyes, "when I came home, I watched you sleep. I used to do that so much when we first were married." Raoul's lips turned upwards. It wasn't his playful grin that he had just been sporting; it was a gentle, soothing smile. They were being serious now. "I once read that you can never know how much you love someone until you've seen them asleep, because that's the only time when all your defenses are down and you're completely vulnerable. And you…" Christine smiled now and ran her fingers through his hair. "When I watch you sleep, all I can see is the little boy that I first knew. You're so beautifully peaceful when you sleep, as free of burdens as a newborn. And I wondered…" she paused, wanted to get the words right, "how you did it."

Raoul looked back at her, confused. "How I did what?"

"How…" Christine didn't know where her thoughts were leading her. She had never spoken to Raoul, really spoken, about what had happened their last night in the Opera House. But now seemed like as fine a time as she was likely to find… "After everything we…went through last year, you never lost that…openness, joy, innocence—I don't know what it is!" She laughed in embarrassment and Raoul himself looked rather amused.

"I wouldn't exactly call _you_ world-weary…"

"No, I know, but…" She found herself lost once again in his blue eyes, his compassionate face, his warm arms that would never let her fall. She could tell him anything. "I'm different now, you know. Or, at least, I feel different. How is it that you managed not to change at all?"

"You are different," Raoul replied, and Christine felt a strong urge to pull herself away from his eyes, but resisted, "a good different. And I wouldn't have you any other way now." He looked away himself, but just for a moment, as if to gather his thoughts. He didn't speak until his gaze was upon her again. "You came through a trying experience stronger than you were before. I had thought it might break you, but you blossomed. I'm in awe of you." He smile tenderly and Christine felt her eyes filling with tears and didn't do a thing to stop them from falling silently. "If I ever need strength I think of you and I can move mountains.

"There's a sadness about you too, though. A sadness which reminds me that, had you been given a choice, perhaps you would have chosen to…spend your life with someone else." He paused again here, his eyes drifting slowly out of focus as he struggled to find the words. Christine made to deny it, however true it may be, but he stopped her. "You don't have to say it—I know you love me. But I also know you love him. And I can't begrudge you that—you certainly didn't wish for it—and although I loathe and despise the man," Christine smiled through her tears and even Raoul looked slightly amused with himself, "I am grateful to him as well. He made you who you are, and I love every part of the woman before me." Only here did Christine make any sound through her crying. A half-sob, half-sigh escaped from her lips. Raoul smiled in sympathy and kissed her forehead. Only then did she notice that he was crying quietly as well. And Raoul did not cry.

"In answer to your question," he continued, "I have changed. A far more subtle change than yours, but I am not the man I once was. This openness you speak of, I still retain that only because you bring it out in me. Because I love you."

"I love you," was all she had time to utter before she pressed her lips against his, her hands holding his head as if the world would end were she to let go. He pressed his hands against her back with equal force and they clung to each other like this, as they hadn't in years. As they had their night on the Opera roof…

Christine was heaving with cobs now. She buried her face in his neck to try and stop them, but there she was filled with the scent of him, and this only made her cry harder. She kissed him again and held his face steady, locking their eyes together. "I will never leave you," she said, her voice becoming steady through her words.

"I know," was all he replied before they were kissing again. It was different this time, though. They were no longer clinging, they were…stroking. Without his lips ever leaving hers, Raoul lifted her up in his arms and carried her upstairs. And so their honeymoon officially began, even though they had not yet left home.

* * *

Soon after, it was time to depart. The whole of the household staff lines up in the foyer to see them off. Raoul shook everyone's hand and wished them all well. When he arrived at Wesley, he pulled him instead into a fond embrace (it was always said that these two cared for each other as brothers) and whispered something to him that Christine couldn't hear. Whatever it was, it made Wesley laugh and murmur something in assent. As Raoul moved on to the next servant, Christine smiled gently at Wesley. 

"You will take care of things while we are gone?" she asked, although she didn't have to.

"Of course, madame." He smiled back at her.

"And do not hesitate to send word should anything go wrong."

"I won't madame."

"Take care." She smiled once again and joined her husband at the door.

"Now you're sure you have everything?" Raoul beamed down at her.

"Yes," Christine replied, tucking her hand into the pocket of her cloak, her fingers grazing a small piece of paper. Although she was fairly certain she would not be able to forget, she did not want to chance it, and was determined to keep this little slip of paper on her person until she completed the task written upon it, namely to visit this Frederick Garland. How she would manage to withdraw from her husband on their honeymoon long enough to do this errand, She did not yet know. But those thoughts were for another day, when they were in London. Today, she could think no further than Italy and all that awaited her there.

Their itinerary was such: They were to travel first to Naples and work their way up the country, stopping in Rome, Florence, and Venice as well, before entering Germany, where they would visit Munich and Berlin. From there, they would travel to Sweden, to the seaside where they first met, just outside of Malmö. Then it was on to London, Bath and Dublin before finally crossing the English Channel and returning home. Raoul, who had made all the arrangements himself, had not told his wife how long their trip was to last ("However long we want it too," he replied with a grin each time she asked). Christine supposed months and wondered how anyone could afford to be away from home for so long, but Raoul just tossed her questions away with a flick of his wrist. "We took a year to have our honeymoon," he told her as she questioned him the last time before they left, "and we only get one. These memories will have to last us a lifetime." Christine wanted to tell him that the memories she cherished her whole life were mostly ordinary ones, like sitting by the fire with her father, but he was so proud and excited for their trip that she hadn't the heart to say anything.

After their first day in Italy, however, Christine's excitement for their trip equaled her husband's. Naples was unlike any place she had ever dreamt of. The sun bounced off the white buildings, causing the entire city to gleam with warmth and beauty. The people treated her with a welcoming respect and, had she any idea what they were saying, she was sure that she could have made a few Italian friends (she had sung in a few Italian operas, but it was not necessary for a chorus member to understand every word they were singing). Raoul spoke Italian fluently, one of the privileges of being born a Vicomte, and soon enough he had a few citizens touring them around the city, Raoul translating everything they said into French.

Christine was far too busy and much too preoccupied with her husband to dwell on Erik or his request. In fact, she only thought of him once in her entire stay in Italy—in Rome, about three weeks into their honeymoon. She and Raoul had just toured the Vatican and were strolling along a boulevard when Christine suddenly stopped in front of a tall stone building. It wasn't very different from the other buildings that surrounded it, but there was something, something that made it intricately unique. As she stood in front of it, silently staring, Raoul looked at her and laughed.

"Darling, what are you doing?"

"Looking at this building," she replied, concentrating even harder on the structure. She was looking for something…but what?

"Yes," he laughed again, "I see that. But why?"

"There's something…familiar about it."

"That's probably because it looks the same as every other building around here."

"No. I don't know anything about masonry—masons are the men who work with stone, right?" Raoul shrugged. "But there's something special about it. It's one of the most beautiful buildings I've ever seen."

"Christine," Raoul said, looking at her with his eyebrows raised in jest, "you have just seen the Sistine Chapel and _this _is the most beautiful building you've ever seen?"

"I said 'one of', Raoul," she said, finally turning away from the building. "Of course, it is nothing compared to the Sistine Chapel, or the Vatican, or the Opera House—" Her voice cut off there and she didn't know exactly why, but she somehow knew that Erik had been here, that this was his building. She turned back to it and laid her hands tenderly on its wall. "But someone cared for each stone of this building, don't you see?" she said softly. "That's what makes it different from all the others. That's what makes it beautiful."

Raoul came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. "Yes, I see," he said just as softly as she, "and I do believe that if you were a building, this would be you." He turned her around and kissed her softly. And as they walked away, Christine wondered why she wished so strongly that Raoul had not just spoken those words.

Christine saw no more signs of Erik in Italy and very quickly a month had passed by, and they were in Germany. Soon after, two months had passed, and they were in Sweden. Finally, on the tenth week of their honeymoon, they departed for London. Christine became ill on their journey across the North Sea; she vomited at even the mention of food. Raoul was very concerned, but Christine, who believed she was just anxious to finish her Task (as she had begun to refer to it in her head), told her husband it was just seasickness. And although she had never been seasick before, Raoul believed her.

And so they arrived in London. Christine felt more at home there than anywhere else they had traveled to so far (except for Sweden, of course). She could speak English very well, and the hustle of the city reminded her so much of Paris. The streets were noisy and crowded and full of people for Christine to watch. For their second day in the city, Christine and Raoul went out to visit the great sights, but Christine was overwhelmed by the people of London rather than its places. She did not understand the animosity between the French and the British; they seemed so similar to her. She thought London was a marvelous city, and not at all as dirty as people said (bear in mind that Christine had never been in a slum in her life and Raoul was not about to introduce her to one).

Christine didn't even have to worry about how to get rid of Raoul for an afternoon. On their third day in London, as they were walking to lunch, Raoul was accosted by two men who happened to be old friends of his (Christine was surprised; she didn't know Raoul had any old English friends). They invited him somewhere the next day and Raoul looked at her quickly before declining. Christine realized that they must have wanted him to go to a Men's Club—or whatever those places were called. Christine softly suggested to Raoul that he go and though he protested, she managed to convince him that she would be perfectly capable of entertaining herself. So, the next day was officially the day she would go and find Frederick Garland and Burton Street. Even as she bid Raoul's friends goodbye, she felt a nervous energy grow in her stomach, and she knew that she would get little sleep that night.

* * *

The next day, Christine stepped out of her carriage and onto Burton Street, a quaint little place on the North end of London, just off one of the main roads. She walked slowly down the street until she stopped in front of number 45. The sign on the door read: Garland and Garland Photographers 

_This must be the place,_ she thought and, with a final word to herself of how ridiculous this whole situation was, pushed open the door and entered the tiny shop, butterflies flapping wildly in her stomach.

The door rang a tiny bell as it opened and closed. An older man stood behind a small counter doing something that looked very complicated with what Christine could only assume was a print. He was tall and reasonably broad, and even bent over Christine could immediately see from the way his face turned in gentle concentration that he was a kindly sort of man. He looked up and smiled warmly at her, and as he did, she felt many of her butterflies begin to leave their nest.

"Good morning, miss," he said, bowing his head slightly. "How may I help you? Are you here for a sitting?"

"Oh, no," Christine replied, blushing slightly. "No, I'm here to… Are you Frederick Garland?"

The man laughed, his eyes lighting up brightly, making him appear many years younger than her impression. "No, no. Frederick is my nephew. But thank you for asking. I'm Webster Garland," he said, extending his hand to her. She took it and they shook hands as men do. Christine supposed she was coloring again.

"How do you do," she returned. The man, Webster, smiled at her again before withdrawing his hand and turning away from her. He faced a young man, perhaps two or three years younger than Christine, whom she had not previously noticed. He was sitting quite contentedly on a stool in the corner, with his knees pulled up, reading a small novel closely.

"Jim," Webster called, "be of some use, boy. Go and get Fred for me." The boy didn't look up.

"I ain't goin' in there, Webster mate," he replied in a broken Cockney accent, as if he had been attempting to lose it. "He's in another one of his rows with Sally. Why d'you think I'm sitting out here in the first place? You go, you're his uncle, he has to listen to you."

"Jim," Webster said again, patiently. Christine got the impression that Jim often had to be asked things twice. "I can't leave this for more than a few minutes. Please go get Fred for this lady here." Only then did Jim look up. He met Christine's eyes and she smiled slightly, once again feeling awkward. He sighed and dramatically hopped off his stool and dropped his book onto the seat. He marched over to a door near the counter and placed his hand on it before turning back around.

"All right then," he said to Webster, who had already resumed his work, "but first I just want you to hear the lovely music you are making me break up." With that he swung open the door and Christine was hit by a torrent of curses flowing wildly from a man's mouth.

"Oh don't be such a baby, Fred," a woman replied. Christine assumed she was the Sally Jim had spoken of. "There's no reason to swear."

"You threw a book at my head!"

"Well, hopefully, some of the numbers in it crammed their way into your brain! Honestly, Fred, how am I supposed to help you with the books if you don't write anything down?"

"I'm a busy man, Sally; I can't be bothered. We need another hand around here."

"Well, we'll never find the money for another hand if you don't write all the figures down! Now please, how much did you spend on that new thing you've been playing with?"

"It's not a thing and I am not playing." Frederick sounded very offended. "I am not a child, nor do you have any right to boss or lecture me. It's not like we're _married_." There was a slight pause in the conversation.

"If you're starting on that again," Sally replied, sounding just as offended, "I'm leaving."

"Fine. Leave. I'll take care of the books myself from now on."

"I'd like to see that."

"You think I can't?"

"I'm certain. I remember what it was like when you took care of the books."

"Jim," Webster chimed in softly.

"Thank you very much, Sally. You confidence means a lot."

"You just don't know when to stop, do you?"

"I won't be called stupid in my own house!"

"I never called you stupid!"

"Enough now, Jim."

"Oy, Fred," Jim hollered out. "Customer for you." Without a pause, Frederick walked out into the shop, his face still burning red from his argument. He was taller than his uncle and very handsome, with light blonde hair that fell easily to the tips of his ears. He already had laugh lines on his young face, the only flaw on which was a broken nose. Though he was obviously unsettled from the scene he had just left, he smiled when he looked at Christine, and she felt the same warm kindness in his blue eyes as she had in his uncle's.

"Hello, miss," he said, greeting her with yet another handshake. "I'm Frederick Garland, how may I help you?"

Christine smiled back, strangely smitten from his attention. "I was told…" she started, not quite sure how to begin. "I'm looking for someone and I heard that—"

"Ah!" he exclaimed, his smile stretching into a bright grin. "You're not here for Frederick Garland, the Photographer at all." He must have seen her face twist in confusion, for he leaned in and said, "You want Frederick Garland, Detective Extrordinaire!" Webster began to snicker from his counter. Frederick paid him no mind, but instead offered her his arm. "Please let me escort you to my office."

"It's not an office at all," Jim said dryly, "just the back room where we keep the books."

"Which makes it an office!" Frederick laughed, and led her into the room in question with Jim on their heels. The "office" was more of a kitchen; along with all the things necessary to a kitchen, there was a table set and on the side of the room, two large easy chairs. The table was overcome with stacks of paper and a young woman was raking through them. She was very pretty, with fair-colored hair and strikingly dark eyes. She smiled when they walked in, and it was obvious as Frederick led Christine past her briskly, without an introduction, that this was Sally.

"Is there a mystery?" she asked.

"So it would seem," Frederick said stiffly. Sally's face began to fall, but she caught it gracefully.

"Well, you've come to the right place," she said to Christine. "Fred does a wonderful job of solving mysteries." She glanced quickly at him before turning back to her work.

"I don't know if you would call it a mystery exactly," Christine explained to Frederick as they sat down in his easy chairs. Jim had drawn another stool over to where they were sitting and began to chomp noisily on an apple. "I'm just looking for someone."

"Well, let's start at the beginning. Who are you looking for?"

"Her name is Winifred Evans. She's a maid, somewhere here in London." Christine was growing nervous again. Both men were staring at her eagerly and even Sally kept peering up at her every so often. She didn't know what else to say.

"Why do you need to find her?"

"I… I'm supposed to ask her to come work for me."

"You're _supposed_ to?" Jim asked, leaning in, his eyes wide with greedy suspicion.

_Oh dear_, Christine thought. "Yes, someone…someone told me to find her."

"_Now_ it's a mystery," Frederick declared, smiling.

"I don't know why I have to find her, but I do."

"Finding her won't be a problem. The name already sounds familiar to me," he said, crossing his arms casually. "Speaking of names, though, I don't think I asked you for yours."

"My name?" she asked, surprised. "Christine Daae." She did not know why she gave her maiden name, but she immediately regretted it. Jim leaned so far forward that his apple rolled onto the floor. He paid no mind.

"I most definitely know _that_ name!" he exclaimed, pointing strongly at Christine. Sally, at her table, had completely abandoned her work and stared at Jim in bewilderment. Even Frederick seemed shocked at Jim's behavior.

"Jim, there's no need to point at anyone," he said firmly.

"Did you sing in the Paris Opera?" he asked excitedly, his second finger still fixed in her direction.

"I—" He didn't wait for her answer.

"Yes! You're the singer, the soprano! You were once hailed as 'The New Marguerite', weren't you?"

"Jim, stop harassing the poor lady," Sally said sternly from her table.

"Forgive me, Miss Daae; Jim fancies himself and actor."

"Playwright, mate, not an actor. But this is not about that, not really." He had lowered his finger from its accusatory salute, but was now standing, still leaning towards her, his eyes glowing with cunning anticipation. Christine had no idea what to do. She wanted to run out of the room and forget all about her hasty promise to Erik. She had never been in this situation before—how did he know who she was?—but she knew that there was no way out. After all, she needed their help. She just hoped he wouldn't mention—"Do you remember when I told you about the Phantom of the Opera?"

Christine's mind silently screamed the most foul and base word she had ever heard Erik speak. Now it was her mask that had been ripped off, wasn't it? Not a very pleasant feeling…

"And I remember telling you that we deal with mysteries, not ghost stories."

"But this is the girl!" he exclaimed, gesturing madly. "The girl he kidnapped!"

There was a short silence as Frederick and Sally stared, stupefied at Jim. Christine, however, focused on her lap, working up her courage. Obviously there was no way around the subject any longer. Best to just confront it brazenly.

"Jim," Frederick said, trying once again to reason with him. "Calm down. You don't know that. It could be a common name."

"Really? How many French Swedes are there in the world?"

"Quite a few actually." All three heads snapped directly to the person who had spoken these words, but Christine kept her own eyes fixed on Jim, who began to smile with gleeful satisfaction. He sat back down on his stool and crossed his arms, perfectly delighted with himself.

"So it's true then?" Sally asked, moving her chair over to join the cluster. "Everything he said?"

"All but one count," Christine replied, suddenly feeling the same rush of confidence she had felt in Erik's parlor. This wasn't difficult after all. "There is no Phantom of the Opera." She could not betray Erik's secrets, but she could hint at them. And it was worth it to see the haughty pride pour off Jim's face. Christine smiled. "Well, not anymore."

"Dead?" Jim asked.

"Retired," she answered. Her smile grew.

"How can a ghost retire?"

"If he wasn't a ghost after all," Sally said, smiling herself, "right?" Christine nodded back.

"But he did kidnap you?" Jim pounced.

"Yes."

"Then what happened?"

"Then…" Christine paused for a moment, unsure what to divulge and what to avoid. "Then he let me go. Then he died, a year went by, and then he was alive again."

"So _now_ he's a ghost!" Jim exclaimed, with a false sense of triumph.

"No, he didn't actually die. I just believed that he did."

Jim looked at her angrily. "My vampire play made more sense than this."

Sally caught Christine's eye and smiled tenderly at her. "Go on, please."

Christine took a deep breath before finishing her story. "I discovered that he was alive, and when I found him he requested that I leave him alone. But first he sent me here."

"Why?" Sally asked, and Christine smiled back at her.

"That's not a question he's very fond of, I'm afraid. He simply told me to hire her as my maid, that she would do very well for me."

"Well, I think I definitely have enough to start with," Frederick said, slapping his knees and rising to his feet. "Miss Daae, if you come back in a week, I believe I will have an answer with you. Jim, if you would show the lady out, please." Christine stood and once again shook hands with Frederick and Sally before following Jim back into the shop.

After the door had closed behind them, Sally turned to Frederick. "Surely it can't take more than a day to find the girl?"

Fred shook his head. "I know where she is right now, actually. I could be there within the hour. It will take me a week to get to Paris and find this Phantom fellow."

"Why—"

"The lady she asked to find, Winifred Evans, was once engaged to my cousin, Wesley. When the two parted ways, he asked me to keep an eye on her. I intend to find out his intentions for her."

Christine didn't hear any of this, of course, as she was already in a carriage on her way to meet Raoul. A doctor was coming to their hotel in a few hours. Raoul had called him after her seasickness failed to stay behind on the boat. Christine had told him again not to worry, that she most likely just had a stomach sickness, but she was wrong. What was making her sick was far more life altering.

Christine was pregnant.

* * *

A/N: Okay, that's it. Halfway done. Wow. Took me a long time to get here, huh? I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I know it was a little different—I had to cover a lot of territory (and basically half of Europe hehe). For any _Reality Issues_ fans—do not fear, Christine's pregnancy will come fully to term in this story (like I'd repeat myself so obviously…) and the birth will also not kill her. Remember (if I haven't mentioned it already), I'm planning a sequel. Maybe I shouldn't have said that… I hope it wasn't too corny for you all. I couldn't help myself with the Rome/Erik reference hehe.Please review! I'm hard at work at Chapter Eleven: When You Give Command. Some more R/C fluff (hello, she's pregnant!) and the man of every hour makes an (albeit, rather small) appearance. Until then, adieu! 


	12. When You Give Command

Disclaimer: Oops. In my last chapter I forgot to mention that Fred, Sally, Jim, Webster and basically everything about them belong to the AWESOME Phillip Pullman. You know whom everyone else belongs to. In _this_ chapter, Fred still belongs to Mr. Pullman, our dear friends still belong to whoever has the rights to them this week, and Winifred Evans belongs to _me_. Well, I got her name from Joss Whedon and JK Rowling, respectfully, but her characterization is all mine. For you _Sally Lockhart_ fans out there, there's a bit of Garland history in this chapter, most of it I made up, but some of it is straight from _The Ruby in the Smoke_! Catch it!

A/N: Clara is very sad. Clara gets no reviews. Clara is a big baby, but Clara works very hard and likes to be "rewarded" for her hard work, as she is sure all of you do too. Clara is sick of writing about herself in the third person! Hehe. Please review. With this marvelous invention known as the hit counter, I know that people _are_ reading it, but I don't know if you're enjoying it! Or if you think there's anything I need to work on! C'mon, you've all read _Phantom_, you know you have to _clap_ to satisfy an artist's insatiable vanity! I know I'm being ridiculous, but… please?

* * *

**Chapter Eleven: When You Give Command**

Erik had been living in Nadir's flat for some time now. At first he had commuted to and from the Opera House every day, but the degeneration of his friend's mind and body had increased so drastically that it became necessary for him to settle in that green guest room he so despised. Darius couldn't handle Nadir's care all by himself anymore; he was awoken most nights by brutal screaming as his master's mind found itself in some other time and place. He needed to be watched over every hour of the day, and Darius could not accomplish this by himself along with all of his other duties. Erik hardly needed to sleep, and so he mounted himself a post beside Nadir's bed and remained there all day, every day. Darius relieved him for a few hours daily, but even then Erik did not often sleep; he was far too concerned that something might happen to his friend and he would not be there to soothe him. He only felt steady when he was speaking with Nadir during his interludes of lucidity, which were unfortunately becoming less frequent.

It was during one of these treasured moments, as Erik sat laughing at Nadir's feeble jokes, that Darius entered his master's bedroom, looking quite concerned.

"Master," he said cautiously, waiting for a response. Nadir looked at him in total clarity and then he continued. "There is a man named Garland here to see you. He says he's a detective." Nadir seemed confused, but less so when Erik stood up.

"He's here for me."

"What did you do now?" Nadir sighed with a laugh in his voice.

"Nothing. I'll explain in a moment. Excuse me," he said, retiring from the room quickly before any more questions could be asked. He was not surprised in the least of Garland's appearance here. He and Wesley shared blood; no doubt he could not complete a simple task without first making sure that the intention behind it was noble and pure.

He was standing by the fireplace with his back turned towards Erik as he walked in. He looked almost like the Chagny boy from behind, except that he was thinner and his clothes were not nearly as distinguished. Still, he wore them well, not as a man trying to make himself more than he was, but as one who embraced his social position and thought only of its benefits, not of its restrictions. Erik could see, even from his back, that he was a clever sort of lad, young though he was.

"Mister Garland, I presume," he said in English. The young man turned around eagerly, but when he saw Erik his face fell in surprise. He studied him for a moment, not more than a few seconds long, and then laughed once.

"You're not Nadir Khan at all." His eyes were annoyingly blue, his grin so similar to the one that had stolen Christine away from him.

"Wise observation," he retorted dryly and pointed to a large chair. "Please, sit down." Both men did so. Erik took the couch and stretched his arm along the back, taking command of the space. But Garland wasn't playing any games. He sat comfortably, still smiling politely at Erik, waiting for him to speak first. It was odd to meet someone not intimidated by the presence of his mask. Refreshing in some ways, as annoying as his eyes in others.

"I must say," Erik continued, "I'm very impressed that you managed to find me. May I ask how? Christine could not have known, I have not spoken to Wesley in months; either you are an extraordinary detective or just a very lucky one." Garland laughed again, heartily this time. Erik wished he wouldn't do that.

"A bit of both, I must admit," he said cheerily. "I went to the Paris Opera House, where I knew you once, uh, lived, and started asking questions. Everyone was surprisingly quick to reassure me that you had disappeared, and that mine was a useless search. But there was this one ballerina that remembered a certain Persian investigating the Phantom. That's all I needed. Contrary to what one might think, there aren't many Persians in Paris who frequent the Opera."

"Unbelievable."

"I know! So that led me here, and I expected to just ask Mr. Khan some questions, but, as luck would have it, I have found my source."

"And you have come to see what I wanted with your cousin's fiancée."

He shrugged. "Well, yes. Miss Daae couldn't tell us exactly what—"

"Miss Daae?" Now it was Erik's turn to laugh with spirit. And Garland finally looked uncomfortable. "What an off child she really is," he murmured.

"I beg your pardon?" The young man shifted his weight, ill at ease, but still unwilling to let Erik completely take power.

Erik stopped laughing and lifted his chin slightly to look down on him. "I am slightly disappointed in you, Mister Garland," he said softly, his sneer hidden behind the mask. "A truly extraordinary detective would have looked into her background as well as mine."

"Your point, sir," he demanded politely. Erik loved that, after all, he was able to pull the rug from under his feet.

"Daae isn't her last name anymore."

"She's married?"

Erik nodded. "To the Vicomte do Chagny." Garland's face underwent a startling transformation. It took only a moment for him to process the information Erik had given him, and then his features quickly softened. He was no longer a cat knowing he was about to be attacked, with his fists tense and his eyes alert. Now his face was a puddle of relief, of questions, of awe. Erik smiled, and when he spoke again, he spoke softly, calmly. The man was just trying to do the right thing, after all; he should not hate him just because he was beautiful, undoubtedly loved, and reminded him so starkly of another blonde young fellow. "And now you understand." Garland nodded, and Erik felt generous enough to explain. "Your cousin did a great deal for me, and I wanted to repay him in a way money couldn't." He nodded again, and then a smile escaped onto his face, thinking of the happiness that Wesley would soon hold, no doubt. His eyes shifted downward, his conversation now internal, and Erik gave him a few moments to think in silence. Soon though, Erik's powerful ear caught the sounds of Nadir coughing. It grew louder and more violent and Erik feared that he was coughing blood again. His interview with this detective had to end.

"I trust your business here is now complete," he said as politely as he could, standing up. Garland snapped his head towards him and stood as well.

"Yes, thank you," was all he said.

"Very good. Forgive me for not inviting you to stay for tea, but the master of this house is very ill and I must return to his side. Can you see yourself out?"

"Yes," he replied, and Erik turned to leave the room. "Sir?" Erik stopped and faced him again. Garland approached him and presented himself in a manner of nobility that had nothing to do with money. "On behalf of my cousin and Miss Evans, I want to thank you."

"I did not do this for gratitude," he replied, but before he could even attempt to leave the room, the young man continued.

"I must ask—"

"Do not look into my affairs any more, Mister Garland," Erik interrupted. "You will only find dark, empty passages, and you never know which trapdoor will lead to a torture chamber." The boy looked stunned and confused, but he did not try to stop him again as Erik quickly left the room, saying only, "Excuse me now."

Frederick stood there for a moment, but then hurried out of the flat. He would not, as was his first inclination, immediately find Wesley and tell him the unbelievable news. No, he would return directly to London, and he wouldn't tell anyone, not even Winifred. He would just suggest to her that she go with Miss Daae. Well, he would tell Sally of course. Even though she would never admit it to him, he knew that this romantic story would touch her heart. How happy his cousin will be; he only wished he would be there to see his face. He had no doubt that the two would live out a fairytale for the rest of their lives. His cousin was a lucky man indeed. Fred had always felt connected to him, although they hadn't seen each other in many years. They both knew what it was to love so strongly that no one else would ever hold their heart, and both knew what it was to have that love unfulfilled. Wesley's love was halted by distance and Fred's love was never openly returned. But now… Wesley would finally be happy, all because of one very strange man… Perhaps there was hope for Fred yet.

* * *

And so he left for London, where presently, a young married couple strolled around the city in a dizzying cloud of wonder. They had just been told that they were to have a baby and neither could remember ever feeling this ecstatic. Since they had found out, they had not stopped discussing all the details that they would be discussing for the next five months. Today was no exception. They were discussing baby names, and although they couldn't agree on any, they didn't argue, for they were far too overjoyed. Christine loved simple, pretty names: Annabelle, Elise; but Raoul seemed to fancy names of a…rather different nature.

"I don't understand what's wrong with Faustina or Marguerite," he said as they drifted around the Embankment Gardens.

"Do you really want to be reminded everyday of the Paris Opera House?" Christine asked, laughing lightly.

"Perhaps you're right. How about," he paused, and stretched his hands in front of him, visualizing a name, "Volilah."

"I think you're making these names up."

"Not at all! Why, one of my other daughters' names is Volilah. Greek," he said, wrapping his arm around her waist. "I'm sure she'd be delighted sharing her name with her half-sister."

Christine broke out of his hold and spun around, walking backwards to face him. "And if it's a boy?"

"We'll call him Wesley, of course."

Christine rolled her eyes. "You must be joking."

"Certainly not. Except we'll spell it W-E-S-T-L-Y, the proper way. Poor Wesley, he doesn't know how much he's missing without that 'T'."

"I must say, I prefer it without."

"Come now, really? Very well, we don't agree there either. Perhaps that's best. It would probably arise all kinds of suspicions. "'Mommy,'" he said in a high, childish voice, "'why am I named after the butler?' No, certainly not." He swung Christine around and once again into his arm. "How about Horatio? Mortimer? Ludvic?"

She laughed. "No thank you!"

"All right," he said with a smile, "what if we name it after its parents? If it's a boy, Christian—"

"And if it's a girl, Roulette!"

Raoul stopped walking and frowned at her. "Come now Christine, you're just being silly." She glared at him and he immediately broke into a grin. Christine laughed once again and, throwing her arms around his neck, kissed him joyously. These two were in their own little world, for now two had become three. An older woman passed by them and muttered something demeaning about the French, but neither paid any mind. It is unclear if they simply hadn't heard the comment at all or if they were just too happy to care.

* * *

Fred arrived in London just a few hours before he was supposed to meet Christine at Burton Street. He didn't waste any time dropping his things off at home; instead, he went directly to a grand townhouse near the Botanical Gardens. He knew this house very well, even though he had never stepped through the front doors. The back doors now, those he had walked through more times than he could count, but he still remembered every one.

Frederick's grandfather, Geoffrey Payne, owned a small shop in central London with his wife, Ann. The Paynes had three children: John, Clarissa and Gwendolyn. Even though they had meager dowries, the Payne girls were very beautiful, and their parents were quite sure that they would prosper in marriage. So it went for Clarissa, the eldest, who married William Garland, a man with a small amount of land and a title intended for him. Gwendolyn did not fare as well in her parents' eyes, but she had loved James Pryce since they were children and it came to the surprise of no one when she accepted his hand. Two years later, however, James, who was a butler, took a position with a wealthy family from France. The Chagnys loved London though, and spent all the summer months there. Although her husband disapproved of her inferior relations, Clarissa Garland loved her sister very much, and often took her children, Rosa and Frederick, to play with their cousin Wesley. And so the three spent their childhood summers skipping between the Chagny yard and the Countess's who lived next door. Wesley's friend Winifred Evans and her family worked for the Countess, who, like the Chagnys, lived in Paris primarily, but vacationed in London during the summer holidays.

And so the four grew up. Rosa decided that she wanted to become an actress and her father disowned her. Out of protest, Frederick disowned his parents, and the pair moved in with their uncle Webster. The Chagnys passed away and the new Vicomte, needing to solidify his place as heir, decided to remain year-round in France. Unfortunately for Wesley, the Countess also passed away a year later, and her son inherited the estate. When his wife became pregnant, he settled permanently in England. So Winifred, who was no longer Wesley's friend, but his fiancée, moved across the Channel and away from her love for what appeared to be forever. Frederick vowed to his cousin that he would look after her in his stead, and had been doing that for the past five years.

Fred jumped over the gate easily and headed right into the kitchen door. He dropped his belongings and hopped onto a counter, swiping an apple from an older woman as she passed by.

"Frederick Garland, put that back, you scoundrel!" she scowled at him.

"Just playing with you, Martha!" He grinned and tossed the apple to her. She caught it skillfully and smiled back at him.

"It's been a long time, boy, how have you been?"

"Just fine, you?"

"Good, good. Joseph's tomato plants are coming in well, so he's pleased."

"That's great, tell him I say hello."

"I sure will." She smiled at him for another moment and then laughed. "I'll go find Winifred."

"Thank you!" he called as she walked away. A few minutes later Winifred Evans stuck her pretty head into the kitchen.

"Fred!" she laughed, coming over to him. He hopped down to hug her. "Where have you been?"

"Busy." Fred pulled away from her to get a good look. Her smile was as bright as ever and her brown eyes were lively, if a bit distant, but he wasn't worried about that; her eyes had dimmed five years ago and no amount of humor had ever come close to restoring the vibrancy they once had. She seemed to have lost some weight in the month since he had last seen her; the bones in her forearms felt a little too prominent as he grasped them in his hands.

"How have you been?" he asked her. "You look a little thin."

"You're not the only one who's been busy," she replied with a shrug. Fred knew better than to press her.

"Look, Winnie, I can't stay long, but I need to talk to you," he said seriously. Winifred frowned.

"Is there something wrong?"

"No, no, everything's wonderful," he said, trying hard to contain his excitement. "I need you to do something for me. It's important."

"What?"

"Later today," he explained, "I'm going to bring a lady here to see you. She wants to hire you, and I need you to accept without asking any questions."

Winifred's brow furrowed and her nose wrinkled in confusion. "What? Why?"

"Please, Winnie," Fred said, kissing her quickly on the cheek, "just do it. I promise you, it's all for the best. I really have to go." He picked up his things and hurried out the door, leaving Winifred alone to deal with her unanswered questions. But even though she had no idea what he was leading her into, Fred had never failed to steer her in the right direction. When he arrived again a few hours later with a pretty, young gentlewoman, Winifred knew what she had to do.

The three met outside in the back garden, where they were unlikely to be overheard.

"Winnie," Fred started, extending his hand to the woman on his right, "this is Miss Daae."

Winifred began to curtsey when she found a hand stuck eagerly in front of her. She looked up and took the lady's hand, which shook hers vigorously.

"How d'you do, mam?" Winifred said politely once her hand had been released.

"Please call me Christine." She smiled gently at her and Winifred thought that she would perhaps like working for her.

Fred smiled as well and said, "Miss Daae wishes for you to come and work for her." Winifred took in a breath, ready to accept.

"I—"

"I know this may come as a bit of a surprise, Miss Evans," Christine interrupted nervously, "but I just want you to know that I mean you no harm. I know this is a very unorthodox way of going about things. You were recommended to me by someone I trust very much, and I value his opinion. Mr. Garland here told me that you were a great help to your current mistress during three of her pregnancies, is that correct?"

"Yes…"

"Well, my husband and I are expecting a baby—"

"Congratulations!" Fred and Winifred exclaimed. Christine was startled and blushed a violent shade of red. She didn't know if it was proper etiquette to speak of such things, but she felt that she needed a better reason for Winifred to work for her than 'Erik told me to'.

"Thank you," she said, embarrassed. "Yes, well… It's our first and I would greatly appreciate someone who's an experienced… helper for this situation."

"Yes, I—"

"I'll pay you whatever you make here and more—"

"Mam," Winifred said, perhaps louder than she should have, "I accept."

"Oh." Christine laughed, completely relieved. "Wonderful! Thank you!" She shook her hand again (she was getting used to this gesture!) and took in a long, sustained breath before starting to go over the arrangements.

* * *

A/N: By the way, can I just mention how fast this update was? Yeah, pretty fast. I'm proud of myself. Look for the next chapter soon as well—and Ch. 13 soon after that! I can say that one with full confidence because most of it is already written! So, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, please, please, PLEASE review! Anyone who helps me make it to 100 just might get a special treat… heh heh! 


	13. Why Do You Doubt My Power?

Disclaimer: Okay, this disclaimer is for both Chapters 12 and 13, because I'm not going to start off the next chapter with anything. Nope, not even an Author's Note. That's right, me, Clara, Queen of the ridiculously long A/N, is NOT going to have one next chapter (well not at the beginning at least… hehe). The next chapter is THAT BIG. Anticipate it. I know I let you all down with Chapter 7, but I think I made up for that with Chapter 8, and besides, this is already written, so I can freely say: Anticipate it. Stay up late nights wondering what it entails. Get nervous about when I will post it online. Write a review about how much you anticipate it. Or, you know, about how much you love the story, or about the farts your little brother always lands right as you're about to eat dinner. Maybe not about the last one. ANY WAY. Disclaimer. I do not own any of the characters who appear in the following two chapters, including (but not limited to) Christine, Erik, Raoul, Nadir and Darius. I do own Wesley Pryce and Winifred Evans, though their names (and strikingly similar counterparts) are owned by Joss Whedon and JK Rowling (for the last name Evans, which I knowingly stole from our beloved Lily). I own the Countess, and as she has no name besides her title, I own all of her. I do not own Paris. I do not own England. I do not own a pony (but I would like one very much). I think that just about covers everything, no?

A/N: I think my disclaimer had a lot of A/N in it this chapter… Whatever. I hope you enjoy this chapter, I had a lot of fun writing it. It's obviously what the last two chapters have been building up to… I've written so much Wesley/Winifred stuff that you guys are probably wondering if this is a Phantom story still! But, oh, believe me, it is. Sub-plots. I love them. It's obviously in the foreground in this chapter, but still considered a sub-plot overall. And when one sub-plot is completed… another one begins! (I had to re-read that sentence a few times to make sure there was no hint there…but in writing this parenthetical comment I'm actually hinting to a hint, aren't I? …The hint is spaghetti. With meatballs and red sauce and lots and lots of grated cheese on top.) Anyway, I love Wes and Fred—Wes and "Winnie" in _Holy Darkness_, because we already have a Fred (Garland) and, excluding _Once Upon A Mattress_, I don't think many girls went by the nickname of Fred back then. And Winifred's just so FORMAL. Christine can call her that; to Wes and Fred, she's Winnie. No, not _The Wonder Years_ Winnie, her own kind of Winnie. I know this A/N is long, but I have to make up for not having one next chapter! You'll see why… I want to start it out a certain way… And if anyone wants to guess what happens, PLEASE don't do it in the review (not that anyone reviews…yes, I'm bitter. Sue me. I said PLEASE last chapter! I BEGGED!). I don't want anyone who guesses it to ruin it for anyone who hasn't. Email me if you want to guess. I guess I've written long enough beginning notes, eh? Well, I hope you enjoy this chapter a lot, it's very happy. It made me very happy writing it. And please review (last ditch effort). You still have my love and appreciation for reading if you don't, but imagine how much GREATER that love and appreciation is when I know WHO is reading because you've signed a little review! Oh and I rushed to get this out before _Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince _(WHAHOOOO!), so 13 won't come out until I'm done with that and talked about it as much as my brain can handle. Two weeks maybe? I mean, most of 13 is written…Anyway. On with TWELVE!

* * *

**Chapter Twelve: Why Do You Doubt My Power?**

Winifred had not been told that she was going to Paris. She had only been told that, due to her mistress's pregnancy, the couple were not continuing on their honeymoon and returning directly home. She assumed, by her new employers' accents and demeanors, that she was most likely going to France (unless by some chance they were on exile for some dastardly crime done all in the name of love and now were migrating seasonally from country to country, never staying in the same place long… Please forgive her. She used to have an active imagination. Every now and then it would catch up with her). Even with the possibility (or certainty) of going to France, there was no certainty that she would be anywhere near Paris, anywhere near… She would not let herself hope. She had given that up a long time ago, and it was only the greatest fool who resurrects lost hope without a miracle.

Her new mistress was obviously very inexperienced at having a personal handmaid. She insisted that Winifred call her Christine (though she knew she never would) and had introduced her husband only as Raoul, not as Mr. Daae. She looked at Winifred oddly too, like she was waiting for her to do something. Nothing bad, just something…surprising. Miss Daae seemed as if she felt indebted to Winifred; she inquired after her comfort consistently and went out of her way to make her feel at home. She even requested that Winifred site with her and her husband inside their carriage on the way to the boat, not next to the coachman as her station entailed. She couldn't remember the last time she had sat with her mistress inside a carriage… That was a lie. She remembered exactly when, because it became the last day that she ever took happiness for granted.

The Countess, the former Countess, God rest her soul, hated to be early for anything. She believed that her position in life dictated that she be the last to arrive and the first to leave, with the grandest entrances and exits. No, she made it a point to never be early for anything, and the only thing she showed up on time for was the theater, for it was abysmally rude to arrive after the curtain rose, as she would loudly tell anyone in violation. When she spent summers in London, she only ever left France the day after her servants were told to expect her in England. And so it came to no one's surprise one year when her son had to return to London a week early and the Countess refused to leave with him. She sent all of her things ahead with him, naturally, so that she wouldn't have to wait while they were being unpacked upon her arrival, and then she complained incessantly in the following week about how she had none of her possessions left in Paris anymore. When the time came to leave (promptly the day after they were expected), the Countess made the grand gesture of inviting Winifred to accompany her inside the coach, as her son and his young wife were not there to fill up the seats. Of course, Winifred immediately accepted.

They were running late that year, late even for the Countess. Actually, Winifred was stalling. Her fiancée had not shown up yet. They had said their long good-byes the night before, but he always came to see her off. Wesley was not like the Countess, he had never been late in his life; but he had recently been promoted to the Vicomte's personal manservant, and therefore head of the household staff, and his days were no longer as open as they used to be.

As Winifred re-strapped the trunks to the back of the coach for the seventh time, the Countess leaned out of the carriage. "Winifred!" she yodeled. "What are you doing? You're tarrying, girl."

"I'm almost finished," she called back. She couldn't linger any longer and risk the Countess's disapproval, especially since she was allowing her to ride with her. She knew it was petty to get angry at Wesley for being late, especially after he had given up his entire evening the night before, but those thoughts couldn't prevent her eyes from filling with tears. How could he miss her? He had seen her off before every trip, even when they were children, even when she was only accompanying the Countess for a fortnight. And now they were going to be apart for four months—a quarter of a year! Her heart was as heavy as her steps as she climbed into the carriage.

"Winnie!" The call came from just outside the gates and Winifred turned just in time to see Wesley pass through them, riding a brown palomino as if he was Robin Hood. Winifred laughed; her fiancée was many things, but Robin Hood he was not. Robin Hood would have at least changed out of his butler's suit before coming to rescue Maid Marion! "Good Lord," the Countess mumbled, but Winifred just laughed again and ran off. Wesley dismounted his horse quickly in a manner that would embarrass any fairy tale hero, and landed just as she jumped into his arms. They didn't cry; tears were for last night; now they only laughed and kissed.

"I'm sorry," he said breathlessly. "Two groomsmen were in a fight… One punched the other because he stole his horse's apple… I have officially decided that I loathe fifteen year olds."

"It doesn't matter," she dismissed and kissed him again. When they parted, Wesley smiled at her, his breath calmer. He pushed some of her tousled brown waves out of her face.

"What am I going to do without you for four months?" he asked softly.

"Summers always pass quickly."

"Summers with you do," he said. "This summer will last forever." He kissed her again, but interrupted it with his own laughter. "The Countess is staring," he whispered.

"Let her stare. She can't do anything."

"Winifred!" came the booming call from the coach.

"She can do that," Wesley laughed.

"I have to go," Winifred sighed. She smiled at him, hoping that her eyes told him everything she didn't have time to say. They kissed again, quickly, but as meaningful as they could make it. She pulled away and after one last smile, turned and ran back to the carriage.

"I love you!" Wesley shouted to her.

"I love you!" She jumped into the carriage and, as the coachman drove off, stuck her head out and blew him a kiss. Winifred continued waving until he had completely disappeared from view, ignoring the Countess's demands for her to sit back down, and she knew that he was watching her vanish as well.

The Countess fell ill as soon as they had arrived in London, and the physician gave her a fortnight to live. Apparently she couldn't even be on time for God, for the Countess died exactly a month later. Winifred wrote to Wesley of the sorrowful news, but at that time, she still intended to return to Paris at the end of the summer. But soon after, the Countess's son, who now had claimed the title of Count, announced to the household staff that they would not leave London. His wife was with child, he told them all, and he wished for his child to be raised in the country of his heritage. Winifred took the news numbly. She wrote Wesley another letter explaining the change in her situation, but still she didn't feel as if it were happening. His response was equally as calm, as if he was trying to sooth her, and in it he wrote that the Vicomte would gladly hire her. As much as she would love that, she was far too young and it was much too soon after the Countess's death for her to break the vow of loyalty she had once given her departed mistress. She had promised to take care of her and her own, and now that her daughter-in-law was pregnant… She wrote Wesley to refuse, still feeling detached and apathetic.

She lived in this state of denial until Wesley's next reply came. This letter was full of a surprising amount of anger and despair, and more passionate words than she had ever seen him write. But her resolve was solid. She never wept for loss of him, not even when, two years later, he wrote that their correspondence must end. She could not leave her mistress (who was once again with child), and he could not leave his master, who was as good as family to him. Their epistolary communication did nothing, he thought, but increase their suffering. She heard no more news from him after that, only a short note on each birthday, but she saw much more of Frederick, his cousin, in the three years since then. And through him, she could keep Wesley in her life, however distantly.

But now she was not so young and not as loyal to a family whose wealth had become so plenty that they valued their quantity of servants over the quality of the ones who had served them best. It had been time for Winifred to move on for awhile, and that is why she accepted Miss Daae's proposal so quickly. Se needed to stop holding on to the past simply because she knew nothing else and accept that she would forever be without Wesley. He would have accepted that long ago, she thought. Perhaps he had even married someone else. Even though her dreams had been smashed the day that the Countess died, she had always lived in her head, whereas Wesley never had. He lived in such high spirits for each coming day, full of energy and vivacity. It was much easier to crush a dream than kill as soul.

"Almost home," Miss Daae said, breaking through Winifred's reverie. She smiled back at her new mistress and then focused her attention once more out the passing scenery. They weren't in Paris, just outside of it, but yet their surroundings seemed vaguely familiar. Odd. The Countess's house was in the heart of Paris, and Winifred had never really left the city, except to visit Wesley, who lived just outside…

Winifred's heart began to flutter, but she refused to let herself hope, even as she asked, "Excuse me, madame. Do you happen to know the Vicomte de Chagny or his family?"

Monsieur Daae looked back at her incredulously and began to laugh. His wife looked very confused for a moment before her eyes enlarged and she clamped her hand over her mouth, also laughing. Winifred did not see what was so funny.

"Christine, my darling, what is the meaning of this question?" he asked, placing a hand on his wife's dark curls.

"Forgive me Raoul, Winifred," Miss Daae said, her laughter slowing and her face shining with pink embarrassment. "I was so nervous when I went to meet you, that I gave my maiden name out of instinct. I guess I completely forgot to correct that mistake!"

Her husband laughed again and kissed her forehead. "You have to love her!" he said to Winifred, and then extended his hand towards her. "Please allow me to introduce myself to you properly. My name is Raoul de Chagny, and this is my wife, the Vicomtess de Chagny, who has not been a Daae for quite some time and would do well to remember that fact from now on." Winifred shook his hand without saying a word, her mouth slightly open in awe. Her mind, usually so active one might even call it overactive, seemed to have stopped working completely. As he released her hand, the carriage halted to a stop outside of a grand house that Winifred was very familiar with. The two _Chagnys_ joyously hurried out of the carriage, but Winifred couldn't move; she was too shocked. Her mind still wouldn't work properly; she could think no longer than to wonder if her heart was beating. Her mistress stuck her head back in the carriage and excitedly pulled Winifred outside. But she didn't want to leave the coach, she wanted to stay, stay inside until her brain started working again.

She stumbled out behind her mistress, her head down, urging herself to think, think! But she was still numb, as she had been for years—

She heard his voice before she saw him. "Welcome back, monsieur, madame. How was your trip?" She must be imagining this…she had imagined it so many times before. She couldn't look up, not if her eyes would prove that she was losing her senses entirely. She closed her eyes, praying that her hallucinations would stop.

"Wonderful," she heard the Vicomte say. "We even saw it fit to bring you back a present—a little addition to your staff." She was going to faint, she was shaking…

"Winifred?" She opened her eyes. And there he was, standing on the top step before the majestic house, just as she remembered him. Her Wesley. She had to be dreaming; any moment she would wake up and find herself still in London, angry at herself for having these foolish and impossible visions.

But then he was embracing her, holding her so tightly that it hurt. Dreams didn't hurt. And she could smell him… She had forgotten his scent. She couldn't be dreaming!

He pulled away slightly and she found herself staring into his eyes, his beautiful dark blue eyes, the color that the sky turns to warn you that it's about to rain. And it was raining; well, no, the sun was shining, but it was raining in his eyes. He was crying. And as she whispered his name to confirm he was real, she believed, and she let herself weep as she hadn't in five years. Even his ardent kisses could not stop her tears from falling. This was a happiness she never could have imagined. She wanted to praise God, thank her new mistress for bringing her here, tell Wesley that she had never stopped loving him, even though she had given up hope… But she just closed her eyes over the torrent of tears and kissed him back as passionately as she could. There was a time for words, a time for thoughts, but now was just a time to live in the present, and she didn't want to miss this moment for anything in the world.

Christine was staring at them unabashedly. What was going on? Without a single word, Wesley had embraced her new maid, and now they were kissing and crying like lovers reunited after a long separation. …And then the words of a poem, stored away but not forgotten, drifted across her mind. "And so they thoughts when thou art gone," she recited quietly, "love itself shall slumber on."

_She will do very nicely in your employ,_ he had said. _Promise me not to forget._

Erik. Of course. She should have known immediately. Only he was audacious enough to play God and orchestrate life like an opera. It seems he had power over more than just mind and matter, but over people as well, strategically moving them all like pawns on a chessboard… But what was he trying to do? Hearts were not made of wood; they could be easily broken and even the most skilled chess player had to forfeit some of his pieces. Christine began to wonder who had to suffer for Erik to make this reunion happen, but her thoughts were interrupted as Wesley tilted back his head and laughed. It was a sound like she had never heard before. His laughter filled the air around him like a prayer, laden with unrestrained joy that Christine somehow connected to the Prodigal Son, welcomed home without hesitation. His laughter was brief—he was already kissing Winifred again—but it echoed through Christine's body for much longer.

There was no need to question Erik's motives; she knew he didn't have any, really. He had done something good and selfless for Wesley, who had done something good and selfless for Christine and her husband. If this was how he saw the world, she could follow him anywhere.

"Do you think they know each other?" Raoul asked, smiling. She smiled back, and turned away from the lovers, bringing Raoul with her towards the house.

"Come," she said to him softly, "let us leave them alone. I'm anxious to see how well our bedroom was restored."

"Strange coincidence, isn't it?" he asked with his eyebrow raised as he guided her up the stairs.

"If you think I had anything to do with this," she replied steadily, "I must tell you that I am just as surprised as you are."

"Just checking," he said, kissing her forehead. He opened their front door and they were greeted with applause from their household staff. They both beamed, finally back home. They had forgotten how much they loved this house, and now they were both looking at it through new eyes, imagining how it would be with a child running through its halls.

Later that night, Wesley came to see her as she was dressing for dinner, continuing their pattern of breaking the rules between servant and mistress. If anyone should find out that her husband's manservant was speaking privately with her in her dressing room, it would create a great scandal in the house and probably Paris, seeing as how well known their family was. But neither thought of this; they just knew they needed to speak with each other, and this was one of the few times when they were guaranteed not to be interrupted.

Christine was already dressed when he knocked and she admitted him at once. Wesley came and knelt before her at her vanity in a deep genuflection. He seemed different to Christine; he was glowing with euphoria, and she had never noticed how charmingly handsome his features were before. Whereas he was usually so serious and collected, tonight he couldn't stop smiling. And she grinned right alongside him, mirroring his own joy and making it her own.

"Madame," he said as soon as he could manage to form his mouth in any other shape besides a smile, "I cannot express to you how grateful I am for what you have done for me, for Winifred."

"I would gladly accept your thanks, if it were mine to take," she replied. "But it isn't. I knew nothing of your relationship with Winifred, nor nothing of her at all." He looked up at her, slight confusion glimpsing through his beaming face. Christine took his hands into her lap, as he once did the night of the fire. "The last time I saw Erik, you remember the night—" (he nodded) "—he told me that when I was in London, I should find a photographer named Frederick Garland and enlist him to help me hire a woman named Winifred Evans." Wesley laughed, not as heartily as he had before, but it held the same kind of joy. It seemed that it would become a permanent fixture in his personality.

"Erik…" he said. "I should be surprised. I told him about her, and about Fred, he's my cousin."

"He was a very delightful man. And helpful."

"Yes… He looked after Winnie—I'm sorry—Winifred for me when…circumstances kept us apart. He likes to play the detective, my cousin. Actually, he's very good. Winifred told me that he was involved, how he insisted that she go with you without questions… I have to believe that he spoke with Erik at some point."

Christine thought back to her meeting with the photographer, although it seemed like a lifetime ago, the day that she found out she was pregnant. "I did mention Erik, not by name, but it might have been just enough for him to work it out, to find him."

"Leave it to Fred to find a man as slippery as a ghost without much of an effort…" Wesley chuckled. "I know where the man lives and yet I can't seem to find him anywhere."

"What?" Christine asked, surprised.

"I've tried to contact him several times since you went away, but he hasn't responded to any of my letters, and when I was there two days ago, they were still lying untouched. But never mind," he said standing, the grin still plastered on his face, "now that I know what he has done for me, Erik himself could not stop me from finding him." He bent down and kissed her on her cheek. "Thank you, madame, you have made me happier than you will ever know."

"It wasn't me," she replied with a blush, releasing his hands. "It was all Erik's doing."

"Yes. It seems that we are merely his pawns, aren't we?"

Christine laughed. "I had the same thought earlier!"

"Well, if this is how he plays the game, I am happy to be one." He bowed quickly and then hurried form her room, undoubtedly anxious to share his findings with his beloved. Christine watched him go, about to break out into another smile, when she suddenly caught herself. She was happy not because Wesley was, but because she was proud of Erik. He had done something wonderful. The love she had been tempering so well rose to the back of her throat. This would not do. He wanted nothing to do with her, and furthermore, she was pregnant with another man's baby. Another man, his enemy, her husband, Raoul, whom she loved and who loved her.

She hoped Wesley never found him. If he did, she knew that she could not resist going to see him herself, to speak to him about what he did. And these feelings would never stop, and then he would see that she was pregnant, and it would only hurt him more, and hurt herself, and no good could come of it! She was rambling, she had to stop him… What could she do?

She didn't know where Erik could be if not in his house, and so she did the only other thing she could think of. She pulled out ink and paper and wrote a quick letter to Frederick Garland in London, begging him not to tell his cousin anything about Erik that he might have found out. She would see that the letter was mailed personally as soon as dinner was over. And she would make sure that, by whatever means, Wesley's letter to Frederick would be sent out much later than hers.

Christine got her wish. Five months later, Wesley still hadn't been able to find Erik, and had given up hope at ever finding him. All he could find was more questions, more points in the wrong directions. And Christine, her baby mere weeks from being born, was appeased. He had disappeared; she had not. She could now forget him without guilt. Or at least attempt to…

* * *


	14. Your Deepest Hour of Darkness

**Chapter Thirteen: Your Deepest Hour of Darkness**

Erik remained completely unaware of Wesley's now abandoned plight to find him and of Christine's diligent persistence against it. In fact, for the first time in years, Erik was not thinking about Christine at all. Nadir's health was depleting steadily, decrescendoing into a state of bleak withdrawal, and Erik had donated the expanses of his mind to finding his friend some form of relief. His attempts were failing miserably. Too fearful of endangering his friend, Erik hesitated to experiment untested drugs on him. Therefore he stayed on a basic medicinal diet: morphine for the pain, laudanum for his mental confusion. Any doctor in Paris could administer that, though, but Erik was still determined to force his lifelong study of medications into some sort of use. His first and foremost goal was to quiet the ever-increasing trembles of his limbs, which seemed to frighten Nadir with their persistence and intensity, often stimulating the incoherent babbles that Erik had grown to dread

Most often these periods were marked only by a temporary amnesia; Nadir didn't seem to know whom he was, where he was, or why he hadn't the energy to get out of bed. He would thrash about as much as his brittle body would allow, panicking, unable to be soothed. And while these attacks were frightening enough, they were nowhere as terrifying to Erik as the periods when nadir's mind would regress backward in his life. Sometimes he knew who Erik was, he only thought the year was different; these were not so painful to endure. They spoke to each other as they had back in Persia: Nadir would warn Erik of acting dangerously and Erik would reassure him that he had everything under control. Sometimes he found himself reciting his half of whole conversations that they had once had.

But then there were the other times, the far less pleasant times (as unpleasant as the former was), when Nadir spoke to Erik thinking that he was someone else: his father, sometimes (Erik never knew how to respond to that; in the course of their long friendship, Nadir had never mentioned his father), or the shah (admittedly, Erik found it a trifle more entertaining than perhaps he should to pretend to be the young _Shadow of God_), but most devastatingly often, he spoke to him as if he were Reza, the child he had loved and lost so tragically.

"Are you ill, my son?" he could often be heard asking, never remembering that those same words lad left his mouth mere hours before. "Your face is so pale, you look like a ghost."

"No, father," would be Erik's hoarse reply, "I am very well. You must take your medicine now."

"No, no. You are too young to do it. Where is your mother? I have been waiting for her…"

Erik would suffer through these carbon exchanges until he could convince his poor, sick friend that his wife would not come until he took his medicine. It was a cruel trick he hated to play, but all other enticements had failed. The laudanum silenced him quickly, encompassing him in a dark, drugged sleep that served only to preserve the body, not to refresh it. Erik's hands always trembled as he watched the drug take effect, trembled so badly that he sometimes paused to wonder who he really wanted to develop that new medicine for: Nadir or himself. It was voicing the words that were so unsettling for him, playing the role of Nadir's quiet, well-mannered son. Imagine, he, Erik, the Angel of Death, he could end the lives of hundreds of men without raising an eyebrow, but he could not call Nadir father without quaking like a demon being exorcised.

On this day, seven months after Erik had moved into Nadir's flat and three days after Wesley had given up his hunt, Nadir was thick in the middle of an episode. Calm though he appeared, the rapid eye fluttering and the presence of two large purple veins in his neck, jolting unnaturally out of the skin they usually rested beneath, said very plainly that his insides were not as serene as his face. His lips were a pale blue, threatening to turn the same fierce color as the ugly, leering veins, and though he was wrapped in blankets as tightly as a newborn, his skin was mallow and pale, as though it had never known warmth. Around his eyes were deep impressions of dark brown, the same color as the irises inside, and his hair, once a magnificent black reflecting his status as a princeling, now dulled like an ink spot that had been rubbed out. Erik hated to look at him, such a pale specter compared to the Nadir he had first met in Russia all those years ago. Only when clarity bestowed its grace upon him could the shadow of the man he had been be glimpsed through the wreckage, for his humor sparkled through his eyes and there was warmth in his smile, though his lips would have none. But that was not now, for at the moment clarity was nowhere to be found. No laughter squandered through his deadened eyes and, should the edges of his mouth chance upwards, there was nothing comforting in the tight crescent of blue lips.

He had been quiet for some time. Erik, as Reza, had been steering a stifled conversation with him until he had suddenly fallen silent. This, of course, was not unusual, and Erik continued to speak to him, knowing that eventually something would trigger a response. Half an hour went by without so much as a blink in answer to any of Erik's mindless questions. Nadir's vacant eyes had narrowed, facing inward slightly, and his breathing was so shallow that it didn't seem possible for the air to have made it as far down as the lungs, let alone the diaphragm. Erik leaned over Nadir's still body on the bed and listened. His stomach was visibly pumping along to a steady silent beat, synchronized precisely with the slight pant emitting from the small space between his lips. Erik scanned his friend's face, hopeful for a sign of recognition. But his eyes were still empty and, aside from a small tick on the apple of his right cheek, it was as if his entire face was frozen in place. Erik had turned to summon Darius when he heard the softest stirrings of a sound. It was low and breathy, pulsing and steady. It grew louder and stronger until he realized what it was—Nadir was laughing. He had never laughed like that before; it was a harsh, hard sound, quite different from the soft, lyrical laughter he used to emit. But this new laugh seemed to fit somehow with the new face his disease had fashioned him. Erik turned and watched him in a state of fearful intrigue.

The laughter reached its peak and stopped. Suddenly, something wasn't funny. In a raspy voice that didn't belong to him, Nadir spoke softly. "'Come with me and see,' he said…"

Erik could feel his hands start to tremble as they hung at his sides. "Father?" he whispered after a moment of silence in the quiet voice he had procured to masquerade as Reza. He despised doing this, but the important thing was to keep Nadir's mind calm but active, so that his facilities might return to him easily. Still, having to pretend to be the son of your best friend, who accused you of murdering the child… Had it been anyone but Nadir…

The gaunt man in the bed sharply turned his hollow gaze on the only other person in the room. "Erik," he said deeply, and the hands of the man he named stopped their trembling, paralyzed in fear. It was obvious that Nadir was not at all lucid: his rough voice and empty eyes proved that. So what did he mean by calling him that name when only a moment ago he was calling him son? But just as Erik thought this, his eyes, though still blank and unreadable, seemed to soften somewhere from within. "Do you know what he is, Reza?"

The rope that had been binding Erik still seemed to have granted him a little slack, and his fingers once again began their quavering. "A…" he started, confused. What _was_ he, he had been asked, not who. _Well,_ thought Erik, _I am many things. But what did Reza see me as?_ "A magician, father."

Nadir's eyes floated away from Erik and upwards toward the ceiling. "Yes," he sighed, as if he were trying to convince himself that was right. "Yes, he's a magician." His eyes had not ended their journey at the ceiling, for now he had turned them entirely away from Erik, looking down at the floor on the opposite side of the bed. "And…do you believe he can use this magic of his to make you well," he asked, his hoarse voice raising its pitch ever so slightly, "my son?"

Erik did not know what to say, whether to give the response Nadir wanted or the one he needed, or if those were even two separate answers. But he must think like Reza, he reminded himself, and Reza would have never doubted Erik's capacity at anything, though he surely would have been wrong in doing such. Erik had failed at many things. "Yes, father," he replied, for regardless of what answer _Erik_ may have given, this was what _Reza_ unquestionably would have said. "I do."

Nadir closed his eyes and he seemed to nod, though it may have been a sway. "Good, good," he said softly. "Then, if seems, so must I…" Nadir looked over to Erik once more, and seemed to smile at him, but whereas a true smile would have calmed him, this here evoked quite the opposite reaction. Erik felt his fingers close around the smooth, small bottle he had placed on the nightstand, it shook as he lifted it to his heart.

"You must have you medicine," he said routinely. His mouth was bone dry and try as he could to salivate, he accomplished nothing but parching himself further.

"No, Reza," he declined, closing his eyes, his voice thick with spoilt exhaustion, "no medicine. Not until…" He drifted off, and after a few seconds, Erik saw his eyes beneath his lids roll upwards into his head. He sighed in relief and, replacing the small bottle of laudanum on the stand, returned to the hard wooden chair beside the bed that had been his home for the past seven months. He crossed his legs and, resting his elbow down upon them, placed his palm to his face. But contrary to his peaceful pose, his mind was restless. He wanted to do something other than sit here and watch Nadir decay! But there was nothing else he could do. As painful, as hard as it was to sit there day after day, Nadir deserved his attention now, attention he hadn't paid him years ago, back when he was diagnosed, back when he had first shown symptoms. Perhaps if he had noticed then…

Erik drummed his fingertips against his mask, not out of boredom, for his mind was never idle, but so he might concentrate on the annoying sound that ensued rather than the withering soul of his friend and the end that he knew was soon to come.

Nadir stirred. His eyes opened slowly, as if he were fighting to hold on to the last remnants of a pleasant dream. Erik was not surprised that he had woken so quickly: these interludes of sleep could last anywhere from an entire day to mere seconds. The question was never when he would wake up: it was where.

Erik watched closely as Nadir's eyes roamed, taking in the room familiarly. When at last they settled upon Erik, he smiled warmly with complete coherence. "Hello, Erik," he said, pushing himself up stiffly to sit against the headboard. His voice still held the same raspy quality as before, but not nearly as much, as if his vocal chords had been sanded down during his short rest. "How is it that you are always sitting there when I wake up?" Erik shrugged, too tired to think of a clever retort. His constant charade exhausted him far more than lack of sleep ever had. Still, he couldn't let himself be tired, not when he anticipated those lucid moments with Nadir as if they were his sole reason for living. Nadir squinted and looked slightly away. He, too, seemed tired, but with a fatigue that greatly overshadowed Erik's own. It was as if it had laid siege upon his blood stream and now his heart pumped exhaustion through his veins, not blood.

"I've been losing time again, haven't I?" he said, not looking at Erik. But his silence was enough to inform him that he was right. He turned back to his friend and forced a smile. "It really is a pity to lose so much of it when I seem to have so little left. We must take better care of it from this point on."

"We?" echoed Erik, confused. What did he mean by that? Nadir couldn't possibly think that he was working so strenuously to do anything other than care for him. "I—" he began to protest, but Nadir lifted his arm with great effort and showed Erik his open palm. He had meant nothing by that comment. Erik felt his shoulders relax slightly, and he waited for Nadir to continue speaking.

"Erik," he said after a moment's pause, his arm falling heavily back onto the mattress, "you have been a good friend to me."

"You have been a better one to me."

"No—" he replied modestly, shaking his head as much as his body would allow.

"Yes," Erik insisted. "You know you have." He thought that Nadir would smile at that, but he didn't. He simply shrugged as his dim eyes flickered toward his lap.

"Very well," he said quietly, "but now I must ask you something that may change your opinion on that…"

Suddenly, Erik was nervous. He had no idea what Nadir was thinking, but he knew it wasn't of lilacs and daisies. His body felt heavy, as if it were laden with small stones, filling the cavity of his stomach at an alarming rate. For some unknown reason that he could only label as intuition, he wanted to run from the room and refuse to come back until Nadir had given the idea of asking him whatever it was he had in mind. But as Erik could not do that any sooner than he could tear down the sky, he asked, uncharacteristically fearful, "What?"

Nadir's shifting eyes found Erik's again, and there they stayed, as if he knew what Erik wanted to do and by locking his eyes on him, he could magically bind him to his chair. He didn't smile now, the playful façade somehow broken, and now for the first time, he let Erik see just how much pain he was in. For he had been strong up to this point, repressing as much of it as he could, but now Erik saw just how much he had underestimated his friend's suffering. And he had thought him to suffer so much before…

Nadir took his time before he began speaking. Once he did, his words were heavy, and he let each one land before he moved on.

"I am old, Erik," he said; "I can't handle this pain. I feel like I'm covered in darkness. It paralyzes me, clouding my mind… But it is a holy thing, for it has made me not fear death. I welcome it." His eyes continued their hold, and as much as he wanted to break away, Erik found that he could not. The air was getting thinner in the room, which had never felt so much like a cage before. He urged his brain to plan an escape, but it was as if he were in a trance. Was this the power his voice held over others? Nadir was still speaking. "But as you know, I can't walk. I need you to carry me to it."

"Nadir—" Erik said at once, finally ripping his eyes from his stare and propelling himself out of his seat. He hurried away from the invalid and began to pace without any sense of direction at the foot of the bed. Nadir would not be discouraged.

"Let me die the way my son did, Erik," he called, louder than normal, as if this topic had rendered him partially deaf. "Let me share his rainbow."

"You don't know what you ask!" Erik yelled. His eyes were stinging; his hands were aching. Every organ, every muscle in his body was twisting into itself. He wanted to claw through his skin, wrench out everything inside and tear it apart with his fingertips. How dare he ask that of him!

"I do," Nadir said quickly but quietly, trying to reason with him. "Darius told me all about it, Erik, months ago, about what I said to you." Erik stopped moving; it seemed his heart stopped with his feet. He listened very carefully to Nadir but he could not turn to face him. "He overheard the whole thing." His voice was soft and understanding, his words once again slow. "I waited for you to speak to me about it, but you never did. I need to tell you—I don't blame you for my son's death, and if I ever did, it is long forgotten, especially now, when I know what it feels to have death's claws tearing at my heart." The mask was getting uncomfortably hot and Erik realized, somewhat delayed, that that he was crying. "It was very noble of you to keep it from me, when I know how much pain it must have caused you." Though he still wasn't looking at him, it seemed to Erik that Nadir had started crying as well. "I know you loved my son and did what was best for him. Now, if you love me at all, you'll do the same for me."

"It's unfair of you to say such things," he whispered over his shoulder, but still not looking, still not looking… "How can I live with myself once I've killed you?"

"It's unfair of you to be so selfish," he retorted. "How can I live in the state I'm in? This is no life;" he was pleading now, "it's a never ending intermission."

Then did Erik finally turn and meet his friend's eyes, the only light peeking through the desolate wasteland of his face. There were no tears visible, but their presence was still felt, for his cheeks bore their thin wet streaks.

"…That was very poignant," Erik said dryly.

"Thank you," Nadir replied. He grinned, a full grin, one he might have given back in his happier, healthier days, a grin that showed just how genuine his soul really was. "But I must admit, I thought of that a week ago," he finished with a laugh.

Erik walked back and took his seat beside Nadir's bed, his resolve set, even though it was against everything he wanted. It seemed that this would be their final talk, their final sojourn into the depths of a friendship that had become such a defining feature in Erik's life. And now that was over, or almost so. What could he hope to say, in these few moments, their last together, that could possibly tell him how much he treasured him? How could he condense a lifetime's worth of conversations into mere minutes?

"Nadir," he said, hoping that the right words would form themselves, "you are the only thing that kept me sane these past few years."

"Ah, alas," he said grandly, "ours was not a love to last."

"Iambic pentameter."

The tips of Nadir's fingers counted out the syllables as he repeated himself silently. "You're right!" he laughed. "You should write a sonnet with that."

Erik shook his head, smiling in spite of himself. "I am not a poet."

"Oh, but I'm sure you could be, being the goddamn genius you are. And you'd probably be better than Shakespeare."

"My genius does not like the insulting adjective you placed before it."

"Forgive me—being the amazingly wonderful genius you are."

"That's more like it." Without meaning to, he laughed. "But I think I'll stick to music." Nadir laughed as well, closing his wrinkled lids over his eyes as if to languish in the purity of the sound. When he looked at Erik again, his rugged features seemed to soften and his blue lips hinted at a smile that never came.

"I shall miss these prattles with you…" he said softly and then looked away, compelled by his own private moment.

Erik looked down at his hands lying open on his lap. Did they know what Nadir had asked of them? Apparently not. They rested there, fingers curled slightly, relaxed, without any sign of the trembles with which they had recently been so frequently acquainted. Perhaps they understood that, after everything Nadir had done for Erik, they could not deny him this final request. They had given him so much, these hands, Erik mused. Imagine if one day he were to wake without them. Almost everything he cherished—his inventions, his buildings, his music—everything was created using his hands. He relied on them for so many things without ever recognizing that. And now, in one swift blow, they would take their payment for a lifetime of servitude.

As much as Erik wanted to stay here forever conversing with his friend, he knew that Nadir's lucidity would not last long. Nadir seemed to know that too, for when Erik looked up from his hands, his eyes were already focused on him. They seemed to want to comfort him, but Erik would have none of it and looked away quite immediately.

"I'll need to get a few supplies…" he said softly to the floor.

"No," Nadir said. "Darius has stored everything you need in the kitchen. All you have to do is add it all together." Erik looked at him then, and Nadir gave him a sad smile. "I never forgot what you gave my son."

Nadir's fingers trembled too much and the entire contents of the first drink fell on his shirt rather than anywhere near his mouth. So as Darius changed his shirt ("I can't very well die in a dirty one!"), Erik prepared it all over again. Unlike when he made the first one, this time his mind wouldn't stay blank. It was really happening; he was going to kill his best friend. And now his hands were shaking. Fickle things, make up your minds! He should run out the door. He should smash the ingredients. He should fill the glass with water instead of poison. Yet his trembling hands kept moving, driven by an unseen force over which he had no power, adding the correct amount of this and the correct amount of that, until it was finally stirred into completion. The glass clinked against the gold ring he always wore as he picked it up. And though his mind screamed deafening curses at him, his feet walked him back into the bedroom.

Nadir was back in bed, sitting up like the prince he was, surrounded by pillows of deep red velvet and dressed in all his opera finery. He grinned as if today was his birthday and he already knew what his presents were. Erik made to laugh, but something seemed to be lodged in his throat and his laugh got caught on it, so that all that erupted from his mouth as a despairing sob. He quickly tried to compose himself, faltering a little in his steps and placing a hand on the bedpost to steady himself. The anguishing sound that had broken through the fortress of his vocal chords wasn't heard again, but in its place a series of tears began to slip down his sunken cheeks and fall slowly off his chin beneath the mask.

"Erik," Nadir teased, the smile never fading, "are you crying over me?"

"No, no," he replied, wiping the underside of his chin with the back of his hand. "I'm just thinking about all the money I'm going to lose from beating you at chess." Nadir laughed softly and shrugged.

"Of course. I should have thought." Nadir beckoned him over and, though he walked as slowly as if he were treading on glass, the room was very small and it took him no more than a few seconds to cross to the bed. Darius stood faithfully beside Nadir's head, holding the Koran. He stood aside for Erik, who, after one last thought of smashing the glass against the wall and refusing to make any more, held it out. Nadir's fingers closed over Erik's and for a moment they trembled in harmony. Then Nadir looked up, his calm smile faded, and said:

"I absolve you from feeling any guilt you may have for my death."

"Nadir…" Erik whispered, his mouth dry and his heart wrenching, one last plea for his friend's life. But Nadir's fingers had slipped off his own, enclosing instead around the cup of death that Erik had brewed. He pulled it toward himself and grasped it with his other hand as well, stifling the shaking temporarily. His eyes focused on the liquid that he held and for a moment, a flicker of fear appeared within them, as quiet as a flame. Erik saw this and he hoped that perhaps Nadir would be the one to smash the glass against the wall. But that didn't come to pass either. When Nadir looked back up at Erik, the complacent smile was once again on his blue lips.

"And don't forget, Erik," he said, the left side of his mouth inching up ever so slightly, "your conscience can never can never die. Wherever I am, you still report to me." With that he raised his glass in a salute and, tilting back his head slightly, brought it to his lips.

Erik didn't stay to watch him die.

After Nadir had drained it of its contents, Erik took the glass and left the flat immediately, pausing only to smash it against the side of the house. It shattered into a million pieces, as he wanted to do himself, as he felt his heart do over and over again. A shard of glass bounced back at him and dug into the open palm he had thrown it with, but he was numb everywhere and could feel no pain. He pulled it out and walked away, leaving a trail of bright red blood from this house that had once been full of peace and friendship, but which he had made into a house of horror and death.

_It should be raining_, Erik thought as he once again wandered aimlessly through the streets of Paris. But the night was clear, one could even say beautiful, though Erik certainly wouldn't, not when he was feeling so terrible inside. The sky was a deep blue and peppered with stars; the moon was large and golden yellow. A perfect night. How Erik loathed it.

And so he walked off into the Parisian night, not caring where he would find himself when he stopped, or even if he ever would. He shut his mind off to the pain; he had become good at that. And yet tears continued to sting his eyes, blinding him as he traveled. So he let his feet guide him, and that they did. They knew exactly where they were leading him, though Erik did not. But they did not know that the comfort they sought would not be found there. No, Erik's pain at losing Nadir would not be the last he felt tonight.

* * *

Wesley, by chance, had glanced out of the kitchen window just as the light from indoors bounced off an object outside, creating for one brief moment a glowing white light to cut through the darkness. What it was, for one who had seen it before, was unmistakable: a mask. Wesley laughed softly to himself. _That was the absurdity of Erik_, he thought. _Search like a dog for him and you'll never find him; but once you give up looking, he magically appears!_

Wesley went outside to greet him, but once he was in the yard, there didn't appear to be anyone out there. Wesley squinted through the night but he couldn't see a thing. It was not yet eight, but the sky was hauntingly black, and there was no moon tonight to shine its dim yet helpful rays. He called out, but there was no response. Perhaps he had invented the entire thing. Although he had given up his search for Erik, his reunion with Winifred had taught him never to give up hope, and he knew that one-day he would find the man and show his gratitude. Wesley laughed at the thought of his wife; it was undoubtedly the influence of her and her tireless imagination that had caused him to hallucinate so. Even she might be amused by him now, for though she daydreamed constantly, she never called out to someone who most obviously wasn't there!

Wesley turned to go back inside. But as he did, he heard the sound of heavy breathing coming from somewhere to his left. Wesley walked quickly in that direction and he almost stepped on him before he found him. Erik was on the ground beneath the window that Wesley had glimpsed him through. He must have collapsed, for he lay in a black heap and as Wesley knelt beside him, he found that his entire body was shaking as if possessed.

"Erik," Wesley said nervously, "what's wrong? Are you hurt?" Erik looked up at him and once again the mask seemed to radiate in the dark. Wesley noticed that, for the first time that he could remember, he was without his black cloak. His shirt and jacket were disheveled, untucked, his sleeves bunched up past his elbows. Wesley had never seen him so unkempt.

"Wesley? Oh, so is this where I am? Wonderful…" Pushing himself up to sitting, he pulled his legs into his chest and then, like a child, wrapped his arms about them, burring his face into his knees. He was still shaking. Wesley was astounded. He had never seen anything from Erik but an aura of the most regal nobility, but now he was a lump on the dirty ground, a seemingly destroyed man. It seemed like treachery to see him so, and Wesley knew that he needed to get him inside and hidden away from any of the other servants' prying eyes.

Wesley thought that Erik would struggle with him when he tried to move him, but he gave up his weight easily, letting Wesley guide him into the house as if he didn't even know he was there. He trembled so ferociously that at first Wesley was not able to hold him steady enough to walk, but after he threw Erik's arm around his shoulder and grasped his waist even tighter, he was able to maneuver him with a little more ease. Once he had him in the kitchen, Wesley thought quickly as to where to bring him. The servants would be either their supper now so he couldn't chance to put him in any of their quarters. The rooms that weren't currently occupied would likely be soon enough. So he must put him in one of the family rooms. The Vicomte would be in his study for the rest of the evening and his wife would be in her dressing room about now, getting ready for bed (she slept a considerable amount more now). So Wesley quickly brought Erik to the drawing room. No one was likely to go in there at night, and it was close to the kitchen, in case Wesley had to sneak him out quickly.

He set Erik down on the sofa. He was trembling so hard now that he seemed to be convulsing. He had to do something to stop the terrible shaking that, so difficult to watch, must be horrible to endure. Again, Wesley thought that he looked possessed, and wondered for a brief moment if he should send for a priest. But no. That was Winifred's imagination running away with him again. It would not do. He must be rational-Wesley now.

"Have you had anything to eat, sir?" Wesley asked hastily. Erik's eyes, which had been locked on his hands, lifted upwards to meet Wesley's. At first they were filled with such repugnance and hate that Wesley thought he was certain to be killed, but then his eyes went blank. He squinted and continued staring, as though he was seeing Wesley now for the first time.

"What?"

"Wh—When was the last time you ate?" Wesley stuttered. Erik looked away from him then. His eyes roved up and drew a semi-circle in the air before sliding slowly downwards to once again look at his hands.

"I don't know…" he said finally, curling and uncurling his fingers as though he was studying them, as though he never knew them. "The days have all bled together recently. It's hard to tell when a new one begins if you never sleep… I ate yesterday. Or last week. I don't know. The past few months have become just one long day…a day that's now over…"

"There's still a few hours left," Wesley said, hoping it would comfort him. But when Erik looked up again, he could see the sneer in his eyes.

"For you, maybe," he hissed. "And, unfortunately, it would seem for me as well. But the world has suffered a loss today, and from now on, believe me, no day will ever be as it once was." His words sounded like a curse, supported by the way he spat out each syllable with immense loathing. Before Wesley could think of a way to respond, Erik bounded off the sofa, suddenly rejuvenated to his full strength and barreled toward the drawing room door. "Thank you, Wesley, but I cannot stay here," he called.

Wesley was by no means faster or stronger than Erik, but he happened to be standing much closer to the door, and as soon as he saw him start towards it, he backed up quickly until he felt his back slam against the wood. There was slight amusement in Erik's eye as Wesley blocked his exit, but mostly exhausted annoyance.

"Wesley," Erik warned him with his voice, "move."

"No," he replied, unwavering. "Listen, Erik… Just sit down, please. Let me get you some food, and then you can go wherever you want. No one is going to come in here, I assure you." Erik huffed and looked away, but Wesley knew that he was thinking it over. "Please," he repeated. "Just let me do this for you."

Erik was still for a moment, but then he turned and walked away. Sitting back on the sofa, he crossed his arms and simply said, "I don't want anything green."

While Wesley was putting together some food for Erik, the bell rang to signal him to go to Raoul's study. He quickly dropped off the food and, after a word to Erik ("Don't leave when you're done, please, I would like to speak with you."), he hurried down the hall towards the study. On the way, however, he was deterred by Christine.

* * *

Christine was not ready for bed. The baby inside he was restless tonight and so was she. She had tried to go to sleep, or she had prepared for it, at least. But as Winifred brushed her hair out in her dressing room, Christine doubled over in pain. When she opened her eyes, Winifred was keeling beside her.

"Should I send for the doctor?" she asked, calmly smoking Christine's hair.

"No, no…" she replied, breathing rather heavily. "I just feel like…something's wrong."

"With the baby?" Christine shrugged, scared that perhaps something was. But Winifred remained composed, still stroking her hair, and Christine recalled that, although she had never been pregnant herself, she had assisted with three other pregnancies and knew exactly what she was doing. "I'm sure everything is fine," she soothed. "These things happen as you come this close to the end of term."

"Yes," she said, wiping tears from her eyes, "yes, you're right." But still, Christine was uneasy. She sent Winifred away after a few more minutes, saying that she wasn't ready for bed yet, and then wandered around the upstairs rooms.

As was the custom, Christine had been confined to the house as soon as she started showing. She considered it a ridiculous, silly custom, but she followed it, and in the three months that she stalked its halls, she came to learn more about her house than she had in her first two years of living there. There wasn't a room now that she didn't know intimately, and she fancied that she knew the house even better than Wesley (who humored her, though he seriously doubted such a thing could be true). Her favorite room of all was the old guestroom that she and Raoul had shared after the fire, and which had now been transformed into her baby's nursery. That was where she went now. It was so peaceful in there; nothing else existed in the little room but she and her baby.

As she wandered around the room, she imagined how he would be, a baby as perfect as a sunset, with clear, white skin and Raoul's marble blue eyes. And he would learn to ride, but not hunt, and he would be brave and noble, like his father. Christine could already see the tilt his chin would take as he stood up for what he believed in, his eyes squinting slightly with determination. Of course, he would be proud and slightly spoiled, as all gentlemen's sons seemed to be, but he would realized his mistakes, and he would do his best to solve them. He would value what was just over what was right, and he would learn to see beyond appearances. He would pretend to hate to be coddled, but inside he would relish it, and Christine would know this, and together they would share this secret as he came to her with all his problems. She would listen openly, advise when she could and just love him when she couldn't.

She sat down in the wooden rocking chair and caressed her stomach, humming softly.

Of course, it could be a girl. Yes, a beautiful little girl with big pink cheeks and a halo of golden curls around her head. She would warm every room she ever went into. And she would have dozens of pink and blue frocks made especially for her, with little shoes so shiny that they sparkled as the sun bounced off them. When she grew up, she would be polite, of course, but smart and quick-witted in ways that Christine never was. She would be elegant and refined as well, and every young man in Paris would want to make her his bride, but she would marry for love, and one day she would bring her own children to play at their grandparents' feet.

Christine stopped humming; she had remembered something. Earlier that day, Winifred (such a lovely girl, really) had given her a book of children's stories that she had found in the attic. It had been Raoul's when he was young, her husband had told her, and Christine realized now that it just might be the key to putting herself and the restless baby inside her to sleep.

She hurried down the stairs toward the drawing room, where she had left it, when she met Wesley passing by. He stopped when he saw her and glanced behind him quickly.

"You seem startled, Wesley," she said, smiling. Since her return from her honeymoon, she and Wesley had become close friends, sharing secrets with each other that he, no doubt, also shared with his spouse, but that she never could. Of course, that would probably stop now, since three days ago he came into her dressing room as Winifred finished pinning her hair and declared that his time would be better spent trying to capture the sun than chasing this ghost around Paris. But he would always be dear to her, even if their game of secrets ceased. "Do I surprise you?"

"No, madame," he said, bowing slightly. He never failed to do this, even though they were more than mistress and servant; they had wept together and seen each other open and raw. "I just thought you had already gone to bed."

"That book your wife found for me," she said, descending the rest of the stairs, "I left it in the drawing room." She made to pass him, but he turned and took hold of her elbow.

"Do you need it tonight, madame? It's so late."

She smiled at his curious behavior. "My maternal instincts inform me that it may be the only way to get my child to sleep tonight."

"Let me get it for you then."

"No, thank you, I can do it—"

"I insist."

Her brow wrinkled as she looked at him, confused. What was he playing at? For a moment he looked very guilty and sickly white. She had seen him look that way only once before. "Wesley…"

"Ah, Wesley! There you are!" Raoul had left his study and joined the two at the foot of the stairs, grinning widely. Wesley's hand dropped immediately from Christine's elbow and he bowed slightly to her husband, who clamped his hand on the other man's shoulder. "What took you so long? Hello, darling," he said to Christine, leaning in to kiss her cheek. She smiled back at him. "Why aren't you in bed yet? My son needs his rest!"

"I'm on my way," she said, with one quick glance at Wesley, whose eyes were downcast and postulant. "I just forgot something in the drawing room. So, if you'll excuse me…"

"Yes, of course," Raoul replied. "We have things to discuss ourselves. I'll be up soon." With that he guided Wesley into his study and Christine went the opposite way. She had no idea what had gotten way. She had no idea what had gotten into Wesley. The last time he had acted so strangely was the day she had discovered that Erik was alive. But surely this had nothing to do with Erik. Wesley would have told her certainly would have wasted no time at all to tell her if he had found him.

Unless he was dead, of course. The thought halted her steps just outside the drawing room door. He would not be so eager to tell her that Erik had died. And then it would be her fault, because she had been the one all day preventing Wesley from finding him! Had she not been so stupidly selfish, Wesley could have found him months ago and perhaps his death could have been avoided! Is that why he didn't want her to go in this room? Was Erik's dead body lying behind these doors?

Nonsense. Wesley would know better than to bring a corpse into her drawing room. Still, her hand shook as she turned the doorknob and she held her breath as she slowly opened the door and stepped into the room.

A tall, lean man dressed in black sat at her small card table facing away from the door. His back was hunched over like the face of a spoon, and his hands seemed to be struggling to support the weight of his head. He was crying, obviously trying to do so without any sound, but failing miserably. Christine was shaken; Erik never failed at anything.

"Leave and come back again, Wesley," he said softly, but his voice filled the room, or perhaps it just filled Christine's head. His voice could master any sound, display any emotion, but it had never been so soaked in sorrow that Christine began to weep silently at the first vowel. Not even when he had sent her away—either time—was his voice so laden with pain. "I need another moment."

Without meaning to, Christine called out his name. Perhaps his weakness had been a ruse, though Christine doubted that, but he jumped up with the same cat-like agility he'd always had and turned around to face her. He whispered her name back to her and then they were both silent as they stared at each other. He was here. He was standing right here in her house. She thought that she should go to him, but something stopped her. She was terrified. Terrified in a way that the sight of his face had never made her feel. Something awful had happened, something that destroyed the strongest man she knew, and she feared it like the wrath of God.

She didn't know what to say to him. How should she approach this? But before she had the time to think on such things, she felt his gaze trickle down her front to behold her vastly inflated stomach. He lingered there a moment, and then spoke.

"Forgive me, Christine… I don't know what I'm doing." His exhausted voice crackled like the lick of flames. "Please, don't think I meant to come here. I just…followed my feet… I ought to go." His shoulders started forward, but then he brought them back. Christine supposed that he hadn't the strength to move far, but seemed willing enough to wait for the energy to come.

"No, Erik," she said, taking a small step forward, "please stay. You're upset. What's wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing," he chanted as he brought a hand up to nervously swipe through his hair. She hadn't realized how hard he was shaking. "It's not important." Suddenly his left shoulder jerked backwards and Christine was certain that he would fall over. She ran toward him, but he straightened himself before she got there and she stopped a foot away, feeling foolish. He looked down at her, his lids so close to being closed that she couldn't see the eyes that lay beneath. "You're pregnant."

"Yes…" she said uncertainly, as if she herself didn't know.

"Congratulations." Placing a hand on the back of the sofa for support, he slowly increased the distance between them. "When…"

"Another week or so."

"Yes," he said, as if he knew all along. He traced the embroidering on the soda with a trembling finger. It was like an infection, this tremble; Christine noticed that it had spread into his shoulders now. "Well, I must really be off," he said casually, or at least with the appearance of casualty. "Congratulations again. I will not bother you any more." His hand left the soda and he took a step away. On his third step, he stumbled forward, and this time Christine was at his side quickly enough to help him straighten himself once more.

"Erik," she said, and he turned his head away from her at the sound of his name, "stop. Here, come, sit down." She took his elbow as he had so often taken hers and guided him back to the soda. They sat down together. He bowed his head and stared intently into his open palm as if he were praying to his fingers. His hands still trembled, as did his lower arms, but his shoulders were once again steady. Christine wanted to wrap her fingers around Erik's, to press them hard enough to smother the violent shaking or warm them with kisses, but she dared not. She was still afraid, though she was hiding it well. So she just stared at his down-turned eyes, hoping that he would lift them and look at her.

There was another silence for a moment as Erik continued to stare, transfixed, into his hands, until Christine, who had always found silences like these uncomfortable and hard to sit through, spoke. "Please tell me what's wrong," she said softly. "I've had no sign of you in, well, nine months. There must be a reason why—"

Her words cut off then, for he had looked up at her, and his gaze had frozen her throat. His mismatched eyes were… Christine didn't know the word to describe them. Empty, perhaps, but 'empty' couldn't convey the horror that she felt when she looked into them. She had seen Erik's eyes convey almost every emotion, from pure hatred to unequivocal passion and everything in between. His eyes were now like two deep wells, and someone had stolen all of their water and left them uncovered in the desert for the sun to bleach and dry. She never could have imagined that anyone could have eyes like that and still have a heart beat.

"Oh, Erik…" she whispered when she had managed to find her voice again. "Your eyes are…they're…dead." His expression, or lack of one, didn't change.

"I'm not surprised," he said. "If only the rest of me would follow suit."

"Don't say such things; you don't really want that."

"You don't know what I want."

"I would if you would talk to me."

"I can't," he said, turning his body away from her, once again directing his corpse-like stare into his palms. "I can't anymore."

Now Christine was annoyed. "Stop it," she demanded. "Just tell me."

"I can't cry in front of you." Though Christine was now raising her voice, Erik's remained soft and aloof, as if he were an official informing a soldier's wife that her husband had been killed in battle.

"Why not?" she spat. "You never had a problem before." Her voice was growing louder, her veins boiling under her skin. His passivity angered her more than his unwillingness to answer her questions. Erik never walked away from a confrontation!

"Now is different. You're pregnant." His words catapulted her off the soda and she stomped over to stand in front of him.

"What does that have to do with anything?" she yelled.

"It has to do with everything!" he hollered, his façade finally broken down, and jumped to his feet, his limbs once again filled with the power and strength they had always wielded. Christine felt a sadistic glee in angering him so, but stopped herself just short of smiling.

"Stop being so stubborn," she yelled, matching his volume, "and tell me what's wrong!"

"_Nadir is dead!_" he screamed, bending over as if it caused him much pain to shout the words, his elbows clinging tightly to his side. He straightened and turned away, his weakness evaporated entirely, though his whole body shook now. Or perhaps Christine was just dizzy from their exchange; she could feel herself tremble a bit. His words hung in the air like an umbrella over them. Erik raised his hand and smacked the side of a book that had been lying on the small table next to the couch. It flew off its seat and landed open on the ground a few feet away. He strode over to the wall and placed his hands against it, leaning forward.

Christine inched forward and finally spoke. "Erik…I'm so sorry. I didn't know…"

"Yes," he replied, composing himself more with each passing second. "Yes, he's dead. And now I am alone at last."

"You're not alone," she tried to soothe, nearing him. "I'm right here."

"Yes, you say that, and there you are—" he didn't turn around, but he motioned with his hand—"Married. Pregnant. And I am alone."

She placed her hands softly on his back, needing to comfort him from a place that was deeper than love. He jerked away as if her touch had stung him. She tried again, and he turned to face her, blocking her every attempt. "No," he said, gently pushing her shoulders away from him. "No, don't touch me. Christine. Stop." She didn't. Even with the force of his hands against her shoulders, she reached her hand up toward his mask, staring into his dead eyes. But before she could touch it, she heard a door click and a voice sound from behind her.

"Darling, I heard shouting. Are you—" Christine turned her head, the rest of her body frozen in place, and gasped.

Raoul stood in the doorframe, Wesley over his shoulder, and even from across the room Christine could see that his eyes were staring, with horror and murderous anger, at Erik.

* * *

A/N: Well. Phew. That took me _FOREVER_, I cannot tell you… I hope you enjoyed it though. It was a very hard chapter to write, both emotionally and physically. I wanted each word to be perfect and obviously nothing is perfect, but I'm really proud of this chapter. I worked hard. And it's long. Woah yeah, is it long. It's also much more descriptive than any other chapter I've written so far, which makes me happy because, in general, my descriptions suck. The paragraph that begins "On this day, seven months after…" took me an hour to write by itself. And afterwards, I called up my sister and was like "Caitlin…is this good? Please be honest, because I just spent an hour on it and I think it might be good." And I read it to her and she was like "…Yeah. Yeah, it's good." And my sister doesn't dole out compliments easily, so… Hehe, it's like my _favorite_ paragraph. Think of the length and the effort I instilled into this chapter as one big long tribute to Nadir, whom I love, and whom I did not want to kill. He's not only a good friend to Erik; he's a good friend to me. He was where I put the snark that would not fit with Erik, and he got a bit more snark in this chapter too, even though he was dying. I just couldn't resist. And just because Erik didn't see him actually die doesn't mean he may still be alive. No. He's dead. Sorry. And I really am, sorry I mean. But I mean, people just don't wake up one day and go "Hey! My syphilis is gone! Yippee!" Unfortunately.

Oh, and sorry about the cliffhanger. Hehe, actually, that's a lie, I'm not sorry at all. Here's my sadistic glee, hehehe!

Please Review! If you liked it, if you hated it, or even if you felt indifferent about it, I would really like to know! C'mon, click that button. Do it for Nadir.


	15. Wealth Untold

Disclaimer: As it's been so long since I've updated, I'll remind you all that I do not own Erik, Christine, or Raoul, and they are owned by people whose names I'm sure you all know very well. I own Wesley, my lovely, lovely Wesley, who, I've gotta tell ya, keeps popping up in my non-Phantom work too. Same Wesley, different stories… Like, I'm working on this 19th century British spy story (think _Alias_ meets _Pride and Prejudice_, as weird as that sounds) and I wrote in a character who works undercover as a butler and in love with our heroine. And I named him Wesley. Huh. Anyway, enough about my darling Wes, I also own Winifred, and any other characters that appear in this chapter, including a very special one…

A/N: So, I'm updating this on January 9th, in honor of _The Phantom of the Opera_ becoming the longest running musical in Broadway history! Yay! You deserve it! I know it's been forever since I've updated, at least four months, right? Well, in case you didn't know, those were _school_ months. Blah. But really good school months, so yay! I was in a production of _As You Like It_, took a sketch writing class and actually had three of my sketches go up in the sketch comedy show at the end of the semester. _And_, I have officially declared my Creative Writing minor. So what does that mean from you? It means I am once again begging for some reviews, not to feed my vanity, but to really point out where my strengths and weaknesses are. I'm actually really nervous about this decision in my academic career, for reasons that I won't go into here, but one of the main reasons I made the choice was because of how touched I've been by so many of the reviews I've gotten. The reason I'm a drama major is because I want to be able to make people _feel _things, not for any other reason but that having a universal emotion is so powerful that it entrances everyone, actors and audience the like, so that we're all the same. And I realized, through these reviews, that you can experience that through writing as well. Add in my love of plot twists and sentence structure (don't ask…) and supplemented with the fact that I constantly have a dozen stories in my head at one time… Well, there you go.

So I'm going to do another "previously" little thing for all of you need a little HD refresher.

Oh, and if you're reading this now, thank you. It really means a lot to me. So…

_Previously in _Holy Darkness:

Christine and Raoul finally went on their honeymoon and came back with two additions: an unborn baby and Winifred Evans, Wesley's long-lost love, whom Erik had sent Christine to find. In gratitude to Erik, Wesley sought him out, but to no avail. Erik had been living with Nadir, who was very sick, and who finally died, with the help of a poison Erik had unwillingly drafted. In complete despair, sick from lack of sleep and emotional ruin, Erik found himself at Christine's house, where Wesley hid him in the drawing room to regain his strength. Christine, now nine months pregnant, found him there, and they had an explosive reunion until she discovered the reason for his appearance at her house. But as she went to comfort him, Raoul entered the room…

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen: Wealth Untold**

From the drawing room doorframe, Wesley watched as his two lives unexpectedly collided with such a powerful burst of energy that it seemed that both forces could not possibly survive the encounter. He had tried to prevent the Vicomte from going into the room, but Wesley hadn't been able to stop him from scaling the outside walls when he was eleven, and he couldn't stop him now. Stubborn arrogance smothered in charm was a Chagny trait.

Raoul stared at his most hated enemy in numb shock for a brief moment that seemed to Wesley long enough to hold several lifetimes. All four of them seemed unable to move, and so instead they just stared and stared: Christine, the torn, her raised hand just inches from Erik, the perpetrator, whose eyes were wide and focused on Raoul, the injured, standing in front of Wesley, the outside intruder. He wanted to run far away from this disaster of apocalyptic proportions (he really should stop reading Winifred's novels… apocalyptic, indeed…), but he was a factor in this unimagined catastrophe, and he would stick it out through the end.

Raoul, unlike Wesley, had no idea what to do. His life had been ripped out of his body in a split instance with an aggression he doubted the Devil himself ever could have used. No. No, this couldn't be happening. Erik was dead, he was sure. Christine had told him. She'd seen him, dead. Hadn't she? …Yes, he was sure she had. And more than that, they had discussed it together before they'd left on their honeymoon. Didn't they? And she couldn't have been lying to him then, absolutely not. They had connected so deeply to each other that night, they had wept together openly. Surely she could not have simply been pretending.

And then Raoul remembered what a marvelous actress Christine was when under Erik's power.

His jaw clenched tightly as he felt the heat rising up his neck and across his forehead. He had hated the man before, hated him passionately for the web he had spun around Christine, but now he hated him from an entirely new place. Now his detestation flooded into the core of his being, for he had no right to be here at all. He had relinquished all hold over Christine two years ago, _two years ago_! Why was he suddenly back to ruin everything once they had just begun to heal?

Out of the corner of his eye Raoul saw Christine take a small step forward and say something, but he couldn't bear to look at her. He didn't know what to think about her, but he knew what he thought about Erik, and so when he finally did speak, it was Erik he addressed.

"I thought you were supposed to be dead." His voice was low and rather soft and, had Raoul been paying any attention to himself, he would have been amazed at how steady it sounded. Unconsciously, Raoul squared his hips toward his opponent and shifted his weight forward slightly, as if challenging him to a duel.

"Unfortunately," Erik replied, his eyes narrowing as he turned his body to face his contender, "that seems to be the tragic theme of my life."

"What are you doing here?" he asked without raising his voice. "What are you doing with my wife?"

"Raoul please," Christine interjected, hurrying to his side and placing a hand on his arm. "I can't imagine what you're thinking right now, but believe me, it's not—"

"Christine, stop." Raoul turned his head to glare at her. He couldn't see his own expression of course, but it must have been something truly laced with anger and pain, for Christine's hand immediately fell from his arm and she withdrew a few timid steps away from him as if he had just raised a pistol at her. But he did not care if she was afraid. He felt far too much agony to care for anyone else right now. "I want him to speak."

With that he turned his attention back to Erik, who stood casually, as if in complete indifference to the event which was unfolding before him. Raoul loathed him especially for this. What gall, to stand so calmly in a house where he was no more than an intruder and act as if he had invited all of them here for tea! The danger and tension in the room was as thick as if it were made of molasses; yet Erik was either perfectly oblivious to it or able to completely ignore the skull-crushing madness that Raoul himself felt pressing heavily down upon him.

"I can assure you, Monsieur le Vicomte," Erik taunted, "I only saw _your wife_ once in the past two years."

"Oh and when was that," he retorted, his voice teeming with suspicion, "nine months ago?"

"Actually," came the reply, and Raoul would have sworn that there was a smile beneath the mask, "yes."

Wesley, standing behind his master, could actually see the crimson rage burst forth on the back of his neck, and just when it seemed that it could get no brighter, Raoul let out a cry of pure rage. "I'll kill you!" And with that, he charged.

Wesley and Christine watched in numb horror as Raoul stampeded across the room towards Erik. It looked as though he meant to attack him with the force of his whole body and drive him to the floor, but Erik merely deflected the assault with a slight press of his hands against Raoul's shoulders. Erik showed none of the weakness and fatigue that had been so visible mere minutes before. He even seemed to welcome the violence as a release from the prison of frailty in which he had been constrained. Well, Wesley thought, that's what he did. Battle was natural for him. And then the thought heaved upon him like indigestion, complete with the same sick, sticky feeling. He looked at Christine, who met his eyes with such naked panic that he knew she was thinking the same thing; Erik, once provoked, would not hesitate to kill. Still, they remained static, neither having the slightest indication how to stop the events that were now in motion, and so turned back to watch them.

Raoul was aching from the blow his body had made against the wall he had hit after his failed assault. Erik, meanwhile, strode away from Raoul, in a sort of semi-circle, not to abandon the fight, but, it appeared, so as to give them a larger combat zone. He spoke then, as Raoul picked himself up, undeterred, from the floor and made to strike again, and Wesley could hear the lilt in his tone like a laugh.

"Is it a duel you want then? Choose your weapon; I already have mine." Erik gestured gracefully to a long rope with a noose at the end that had somehow appeared in his hand.

It must have been the sight of the lasso that caused Christine to find her voice, for she immediately cried out, "Erik! Put that down, please. There's no need—"

"I'll fight you with anything," Raoul growled. Animalistic sensibilities which no one even knew had existed in Raoul now manifested themselves to a frightening extent. His eyes were focused completely on his foe and he hunched forward, ready to pounce as soon as the opportunity arose. Erik seemed greatly amused by this response; he languidly made show of tossing the lasso aside and raising his empty hands up and to the sides as if praying to God.

"I'll win with nothing."

It was almost pitiful to watch. Raoul attacked and Erik parried; Raoul went to strike and Erik deflected him with the grace of a bird and the tedium of a cat that had caught his yarn one too many times to be entertained by it. Wesley could see, with great relief, that for all of his boasts, Erik would not actively attempt to attack. This only infuriated Raoul further.

"You're not even trying!" he roared at him, his face burning with exertion and fury.

"I know," Erik said, this time not even trying to hide his laugh, "and you're still losing." His laughter maddened Raoul to such an extreme level that there were no words left for him. He let out a deep, sustained bellow and picked up the nearest entity, a vase, and threw it at Erik. He didn't dodge the attacking object nor did he have to; it smashed into pieces against the wall at least a foot and a half away from its target.

"Yes, boy, I agree. That was an ugly vase and it deserved to be punished."

Next to Wesley, Christine had begun to pant as if she were the one continually running back and forth across the drawing room. "Erik, please," she called, her words seeping with the sound of held sobs, "I beg you…"

Erik broke his focus on Raoul for the first time since their confrontation began to look at Christine, remorse evident in his eyes. He raised his hands as if to show her that he was not trying to do any harm, but it was in this moment of loss of concentration that Raoul chose to attack again; he managed to strike him on his side before Erik was able to elude him and send him flying once more into the wall.

There was no more regret apparent in Erik's eyes; now they were seething with rile and annoyance. He made yet another semi-circle around the room, opting for a new position, and this time he seemed prepared to actually fight. Christine had backed up against the wall and low, painful moans were escaping her lips. Subconsciously, Wesley wished that she would be quiet; she was breaking the tension in the room.

When Raoul turned back around it looked as if his nose had exploded on his face. Blood seeped over his mouth and down his chin, staining his shirt. But to look in his eyes, one wouldn't have thought he was hurt at all, they were burning with such a primeval triumph, his bloodied lips below curled in a vicious smile. Wesley felt himself pale to look at the pair of them. With his light blond hair matted with sweat, the sadistic turn of his mouth and his face and white shirt smattered with scarlet blood, Raoul seemed much more a fallen angel turned demonic than the compassionate master and friend Wesley knew him as. And across from him stood Erik, refined and genteel in his fine clothes and elegant stature, as the prevailing deity he challenged. The world was wholly insane, Wesley thought, as was everyone in this room.

Raoul smeared the back of his hand across his mouth, removing enough blood for him to speak. "Not as fast as you once were, eh, old man?" he jeered, his mouth curving into a ferocious sneer.

"Raoul…" Christine gasped, still pressed against the wall.

"Do you hear, I think he called me old," Erik mocked. "I guess we shall finally see which is more powerful—age or beauty."

"I'll throttle you!" Raoul attacked once more and this time Erik let him reach him. Raoul locked his arms around Erik's waist, his head beside his hands, and struggled to bring the man to the ground. Erik never lost control though, that much was easy to see. He reached over Raoul's back and began to endeavor to lift him up overturned. Raoul felt this and strained to keep himself grounded but when he couldn't, panicking, began to pound Erik repeatedly in the stomach. Both men were letting out loud, primitive grunts, but somehow Christine's constant huffing overtook their sound.

"Raoul! Raoul!" she screamed, the pace of her panting becoming ever quicker.

"Stay out of this, Christine!" Raoul yelled back as Erik lifted his feet from the floor and he struck back, hitting Erik on the side and causing his feel to touch the ground once more.

"No, Raoul! It's… it's… Raoul, it's my—" But she didn't finish the sentence and instead let out an earsplitting shriek. All three heads in the room turned immediately to look at her, crouched halfway down the wall, a pool of water around her feet.

* * *

The midwife came surprisingly quickly, hardly a half an hour after they'd sent for her, and she promptly ushered the three anxious men out of the bedroom so that she and Winifred could take over. They were, after all, professionals, she reminded them; Christine was in good hands.

At the end of the staircase Raoul and Wesley began to move towards the study, but Erik lingered behind uncomfortably. "I think I had better leave," he said. Wesley turned around to question him, but stopped, remembering that, according to Raoul, he had never seen Erik before in his life and certainly wouldn't be addressing him. Erik gave him a slight nod and Wesley understood; of course he couldn't stay. Erik's hand was already on the doorknob and the door slightly ajar when Raoul finally turned to look at him.

"I think you should stay," he said thinly. Wesley couldn't believe his words; his mouth was covered by the end of the handkerchief that he held up to his nose, but the voice was unmistakably his. Even Erik seemed unsettled by what he said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I think you should stay," Raoul repeated, a little more forcefully this time, "in case anything should… happen." Neither Wesley nor Erik could reply; they both stood baffled and bewildered. Was this not the man who had just attacked Erik in the drawing room? And now he wished him to stay during the birth of his child? Raoul continued, their silence forcing him to explicate. "I know that the midwife has everything in control, but if there are complications… That is to say, Christine has such a tiny frame and…" The hand holding the handkerchief dropped and Raoul turned his head, pressing the heel of his hand across the side of his forehead. It was obviously not easy for him to say. After a moment he looked up again and finished with a new approach. "I understand that you have a great deal of knowledge on the practice of medicine and I know that Christine would trust you more than a doctor, should the need occur." He glared at Erik, as if daring him to refuse.

Erik dropped his eyes and for a moment Wesley was afraid that he would refuse, but then the door was shut again and Erik met Raoul's glare, inclining his head slightly in acquiescence.

The three of them then retired to Raoul's study in silence, and in silence they stayed for a time. Erik crossed the room and stood looking out the window, his arms crossed in front of him. Raoul took his place behind his desk and even though he still held the handkerchief to his bleeding nose, he pulled out a small book and began to write calmly. And as for Wesley, he watched the other two men apprehensively for a moment before taking a seat in his usual easy chair diagonally across from Raoul's desk. As with everything that had happened tonight, he did not quite know what to think. Here were two men who had almost killed each other, and now they were going to wait with each other for the woman they both loved to give birth. It didn't seem fair to either one of them.

Wesley was also very aware of how careful he had to be when he was with both Erik and Raoul. It was imperative that Raoul not be aware of any kind of relationship between Wesley and Erik. The reveal of his wife with his most hated enemy had torn at his nobility and humanity. For the first time in his life he had actually attacked another person; Wesley did not know what he would do if he learned of this second treachery.

"I think you broke my nose," Raoul said crossly.

Erik had been staring out the window, lost in his thoughts, and, as often happened when he was in such a state, he didn't hear Raoul fully. "What?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

"I said I think you broke my nose."

"I most certainly did not," he replied, looking once more out the window; "the wall broke your nose, if in fact it is actually broken, which I sincerely doubt."

"Oh really? Well, since you _are_ the medical expert, why don't you come over here and see?"

Erik turned and walked towards him. My, how he hated this impudent boy. "By all means, if you permit me to examine it." Raoul took down his handkerchief and motioned for Erik to begin. As he pressed his fingers gently along the bridge of his nose, Erik caught sight of what Raoul had been writing; it appeared to be a journal. It was quickly removed from view as soon as its owner noticed that it was in sight. Erik laughed to himself. He had not thought of Raoul as the kind of man to keep a journal. Well, that's not true. Except to curse his name, he hardly thought of him at all, certainly not enough to make that observation.

Erik placed his pointer and middle fingers on either side of Raoul's nose, curled them and tugged slightly.

"Ow!" Raoul grumbled. Erik looked down disdainfully.

"That did not hurt."

"How would you know?" Raoul asked childishly, pushing Erik's hand away from his face. "Have you ever had someone yank on your nose that's probably broken?"

"It's rather difficult to yank on something that doesn't exist, isn't it?" Erik turned on his heel and strode back to his spot by the window. "And it isn't broken in the least. The bleeding should stop soon."

Erik was more fatigued than he had ever been in his entire life. He had never needed a great deal of sleep, but he had been living off of the least amount necessary for months now and it had finally hit him all at once. What a day, he thought. Imagine, if Christine's baby was born before midnight, he would have been present at both the beginning and end of a life in the time it took for the earth to revolve once around the sun. Could it be possible that it was only hours ago when he was at Nadir's side, speaking to him in that comfortable way that they shared together, that way that he would never speak again?

Nadir… Erik had known he was going to die for months, but he hadn't really believed it until just before it happened. He had been afraid that Nadir would die and all that would be left inside of him was emptiness. He had been wrong; what he was left with was this ever-growing feeling of pure grief. Grief was much worse than emptiness; grief was like a twisting of thousands of unnamed and unknown emotions, wrapping themselves around each other in a desperate struggle to come out on top. It was confusing for him, as if there was a war in his stomach, a war where everyone was fighting everyone and no one knew why. Sometimes one would win temporarily, and he would feel a pang of sadness or the pounding of anger, but the others were all still there, groping and pushing each other aside, struggling against what they actually wanted to achieve.

Erik sighed quietly and crossed his arms once more. He couldn't reason his way out of grief. It had its own schedule, and it didn't care how strong or witty his arguments were against it, it wouldn't pay any heed. Grief fed off panic and despair, the same thing it instilled. It pushed these out upon one and then gained its own momentum as one was forced to feel these things.

The worst point about grief, Erik thought, was that it never really goes away. Once one's felt grief, true grief, the kind that one can't lie to oneself about, it has gotten a hold for life. Erik knew this, he could tell. He could imagine himself, somewhere in the distant future, believing himself to have finally finished grieving, making himself tea or walking down a dark street, and then he could actually feel how it would hit him, right in the chest, knocking the wind out of his lungs and making him stumble forward clumsily. And he knew that, as instantly as it would appear, it would dissolve once again, only to reappear weeks, perhaps months or maybe years later, but still just as strong, potent and unavoidable.

It had nearly destroyed him, this grief, blinded him and led him to Christine's house, which held no comfort, only further anguish: the discovery of her pregnancy, their argument and then that fight. He hadn't truly thought Raoul would ever attack him, in his house, before his wife, but, obviously, he had been very wrong. He hadn't meant to hurt the boy, only tire him out so that he would resign his insane ploy, but he had angered him, and Erik's temper was not something he had ever been able to fully control. Had Christine not gone into labor at the exact moment she did, he would have broken the young vicomte's neck, he was sure.

And now she was upstairs, giving birth to her husband's baby. Had he ever imagined a reunion with Christine as he had sat diligently beside Nadir's bed every day as he slept, he certainly wouldn't have imagined this. What was he doing here? Well, he knew what he was doing here, and he was actually grateful to the little fop for inviting him to stay; had anything happened to Christine and he wasn't here he never would have been able to live with himself. And so he waited, waited for that moment when the first cries of a newborn were heard, when Raoul rushed upstairs to see his child and when Erik ambled out the front door, forgotten.

There was a loud thump and Erik turned his head to look behind him. It must have been at least two hours since he had paid attention to the other men in the room. At some point during Erik's reverie, Raoul had apparently found a decanter of brandy and, in the tradition of fathers-to-be everywhere, gotten considerably drunk. He had just knocked a large pile of books off his desk and Wesley was now picking them up from the floor, looking up with concern and discomfort at Raoul, who, in addition to having a nose that was no longer bleeding, appeared to find this very amusing. Just then a distant prolonged shrill scream penetrated the door of the study and Raoul ran to it, instantly sober, and flung it open. Wesley and Erik hurried to join him by the door. Raoul was staring upwards, as if by looking into the ceiling hard enough he could see what was happening in his bedroom.

"I knew it," he whispered fearfully, "it's killing her."

"It's not killing her," Erik said, his voice gentle, certainly gentler than it had ever been before when speaking to Raoul. "I believe it's almost over."

"Did you hear that?" Wesley asked, clapping his hand against Raoul's back, who continued to stare at the ceiling. "You're almost a father!"

"Yes," he whispered to himself and then swayed, his drunken stupor returning. He tottered unsteadily back to his desk chair and fell into it. "Although," he said after taking another swig from his glass, "who knows? Christine could give birth to a skinny little thing with dark hair and no nose. Then I guess I wouldn't be a father after all, would I?"

"The child will have a nose," Erik said icily, turning away to return to the window. He was determined not to let his temper get out of hand again.

"Hopefully," Raoul scoffed.

"I did not father any child with your wife, monsieur."

"How am I supposed to believe you?"

Erik turned and met his accusing glare. "You already do or you wouldn't have asked me to stay." He turned his back once again to Raoul and looked out the window.

The room was immersed in silence once more, but this only lasted for a few minutes, for soon enough they heard the distinct sound of running footsteps. Erik turned just in time to see a thin young woman with brown hair open the door, grinning.

"It's a girl!" she squealed, and turned to race back upstairs. Raoul's face lit up and he rushed out after her. Wesley hurried out too, stopping only at the threshold to beckon Erik to join them.

Erik lingered behind for a moment, and then slowly walked down the hall towards the staircase. As he passed the large grandfather clock, he noted that it was ten minutes before midnight. His footsteps were so light they were inaudible on the stairs. He peered down the hall and into the master bedroom. Christine lay tucked into the middle of her bed, red-faced, exhausted, but glowing with beauty. She was beaming up at Raoul, who sat next to her, obviously smitten with the bundle in his arms. Erik could see from there that she definitely had a nose, along with a tuft of blond hair on her head that was the exact color of Raoul's. The young woman who had proclaimed the baby's arrival was standing off to the side with Wesley; ah, Erik thought, this must be his Winifred.

"What shall we name her, darling?" Raoul asked, his voice soft and bereft of any residual tension or anger.

"I was thinking," Christine replied gently, "of Lucette. Because, oh Raoul, just look at her. She's beautiful; she's lightness in its purest form."

"Lucette," Raoul mused. "It's perfect." He leaned down and kissed his wife tenderly on the lips.

With that Erik left, just as he had predicted, quietly and forgotten.

* * *

A/N: Well, there it is, folks! I hope you enjoyed it. This one was a lot easier to write than the last one, believe you me! I think the trouble I had in the beginning of this chapter was that I was putting to much pressure on myself to have a great "follow-up" to Chapter 13. I finally realized that it's not about beating myself at anything. Chapter 13 was written the way it was because it was emotional, and a turning point for everyone, and it dealt with the death of one of my favorite characters. It was a descriptive piece for the most part, with very little action in the whole chapter until the end. This chapter, of course, was pretty much all action (how'd you guys like that, by the way? Was I anywhere in the right ballpark?). It's not as lengthy as Chapter 13, but it's longer than 12 and just a hundred words or so shorter than Chapter 8, which was the 3rd longest chapter… Yeah, you guys don't really care about that, huh? Hehe. Well, thank you for reading, I hope you had fun, please, please, please review! Oh, and CONGRATULATION to phans everywhere for helping make _Phantom_ the longest running Broadway show ever! We rock! 


	16. Stills Your Spirit

Disclaimer: I do not own blah blah blah.

A/N: Okay, here I am folks. Of course my writer's block pervades all semester until _finals week_ so here I am, at 11:42pm when I most certainly have a research paper to write due in three days, typing up Chapter 15 at long last. I hope you enjoy it; it's not the longest chapter, but it does its job, I think. I hope. Let me know what you think, please.

On a separate note, I was accepted into the NYU Advanced Fiction Workshop, so, yay! And guess what got me there… The opening 1500 words of Chapter 13 (_my_ Ch13, not 13, as in the chapter of Nadir's grand finale). Haha! I was telling my friend Mike I got in and he was like, "Congratulations! What did you submit—your fan fiction?" and I was like "…yes…". Haha. Ah, my non-phan friends… They have no idea what this is all about. But I wouldn't trade it for all the world!

Please, please, please review. Please! I'll love you forever!

So, okay, short summary… Nadir: dead. Erik: in pain. Christine: pregnant. Erik: in more pain. Raoul: shocked. Erik: hot/teasing. Raoul: in pain (physical). Christine: in labor. Erik/Raoul/Wesley: waiting. Erik: snark. Raoul: angst. Wesley: nervous as all hell. Lucette: born! Christine/Raoul/Wesley: happy. Erik: sad. Readers: Aw. Clara: phew.

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**Chapter Fifteen: Stills Your Spirit**

It was almost two in the morning by the time Erik crossed the underground lake to his house, a place he hadn't been inside in seven months. He tied off the boat and entered the bleak silence of his parlor. He was almost surprised to find everything as he had left it, not a single thing different than it was before the long, trying months and tonight's climactic disaster of an evening. But of course, he thought with a whimsical sigh, his house could not change simply because he had.

Erik took a step towards his bedroom when his knees buckled. He would have fallen, but he caught the edge of the sofa to save himself. The weakness in his bones was no longer that of emotional turmoil or distress, but of sheer exhaustion. Erik had never felt this way before. Every part of him was soaking in fatigue; his body was giving out under him and he hadn't the strength to think anymore.

He lowered himself onto the sofa and lay down. There was no need for laudanum tonight, for, as if his body had manufactured the drug itself, the moment he shut his eyes he was asleep. Erik stayed that way, fully dressed, in a sleep so deep he neither moved nor dreamt, straight through the night to morning. And when morning came, he didn't notice and continued sleeping through the day, through the night and through the next morning, only to awaken sometime after noon with incredible hunger.

Walking to the kitchen, his muscles ached from lack of use, but they were cooperating again, so Erik paid their stiffness no mind. Of course, he hadn't been home in months, so he had nothing fresh to eat, but he put on some tea, hoping it would suffice until he could visit the markets in the evening, just before they closed, and pick up some supplies.

As Erik waited for his tea his mind, as minds both brilliant and dull are oft to do, began to wander. No, he thought, trying to stop his most tragic form of self-mutilation, he must find something else to do but think, for he knew where his thoughts would inevitably lead… Music. He could always lose himself in music. Something without lyrics so he did not think of Christine. A concerto, perhaps or… A requiem, he had not given Nadir his requiem—and it had already been two days. He could do nothing for his friend now, nothing, except offer this one gift up to Heaven, or wherever he may be…

Very well. He would play Nadir's requiem and then move on, move on to something that didn't remind him of Nadir or Christine…

But what did he have besides them?

That was foolishness speaking. He had existed before, and he could exist now. He would just have to leave, move, as he always had when he was no longer welcome. And this house had certainly become unwelcoming. As he looked around it now he could not see past its glamour of an elaborate tomb, which was perhaps just what it had always been. And after over half a year of living in rooms that were lit by nothing but natural sunlight, he sharply felt its absence underground. It seemed that this house was just another cage after all, however hard he had worked to make it feel like a home.

There was no practical reason for him to continue to live down here. He had ceased to be the Phantom after he faked his death for Christine. He no longer visited the Opera, and though it was still easy for him now, the long trek to the surface would eventually become too much for him to endure on a daily basis. Why then he would be trapped down here, unable to get food, and he would slowly starve himself to death, without anyone ever knowing. My God, all this place had ever been was an elaborate and twisted suicide, he had only just realized it!

Erik poured his tea only to set it aside immediately. Thoughts of food and drink had been replaced by a ravaging hunger for action. If this was his choice, to once more up heave any semblance of a life or home he may have here, then it must be put into action now. Impulse is a friend when heeded, a degenerating sickness when repressed. He would immerse himself in laying plans, making arrangements and constructing a new life far away from Paris.

Until his future was finalized, however, h couldn't stay in this house. The ghosts in his mind were too strong here; though they may never vanish entirely, perhaps when he wasn't enclosed in these rooms, saturated with memories in every square meter, perhaps then these haunting spirits could recede into the darker recesses of his overstocked mind, where he had already banished so much… He could bury Nadir and Christine there, aside Sasha and Giovanni, Luciana and his mother, the nights of terror-dreams and his quest for acceptance. Yes, he would lay them there to rest, where they would always remain, available for visits if requested, but barred from stalking him ceaselessly for the rest of his days. It could be possible—it had to be—after he left this cursed house where the walls whispered their names and the organ sang to the melody of their voices.

Erik quickly grabbed the few necessities he had and made his way out the door without stopping to look or linger. He rowed across the lake swiftly, his strength almost fully returned, although he knew he would have to eat as soon as he'd acquired lodgings. As the shore approached, he noticed a small figure standing on its ground. Erik swore softly and made to return to his house; he had no desire to deal with another death forced by his hands. But then the figure called out a solitary "sir", and Erik turned back, recognizing the voice. It was Darius.

Calmly, Erik dealt with securing his boat before turning to face Nadir's ever-faithful servant. Darius walked toward him, the hesitation and anxiety that had always filled his body when he spoke with Erik apparent in every step; he had never lost this, not even after months of living together and tending Nadir.

"Darius," Erik greeted.

"Sir," he replied, bowing low. "I hope you do not mind the intrusion."

"How long have you been standing here?"

"Not long. Forgive me, but I did not know how else to reach you. My master once told me that, should I ever need you, I was to go to the banks of the underground lake at the Opera and wait, but that I must not, under any circumstances, go near the water."

Erik almost laughed, remembering Nadir's near-fatal encounter with the siren, but he winced instead, and swallowed the sound. "What do you need me for?"

"It has taken me a few days to make the arrangements, but I am bringing my master's body back to Persia tomorrow. He wished to be laid aside the bodies of his wife and son, hoping Allah may return them to each other in another life." Darius closed his eyes for a moment in prayer. "He also wished that you have his house here in Paris."

Erik did not allow his surprise to filter through his eyes. "He left me his house?" _Of course,_ he mused. _I make a plan and Life just raises her hand and begs to disagree._

"Yes," Darius continued. "Perhaps he thought it would be good for you, although I don't know his precise reasons. But you have been… comfortable there in the past, have you not? It could be a good… change."

_A change…_ Yes, it would be a change, though perhaps not as dramatic as he had anticipated, still, it could work. He would not be enclosed in a tomb for the rest of his days, and he could stay in the city and easily lose himself whenever he needed to in the dense traffic of Parisians that kept their steady pace on the main street a block away. There would be no need to furnish Nadir's flat, except to bring in a piano; that was one very important feature it lacked. _Well, my friend, _Erik thought,_ you were right. Even death does not seem to stop you from bring my conscious. If this is what you want, I trust you to guide me true._

"All right," he said. "What do I need to do?"

Erik and Darius worked steadily for the next thirty-six hours, dedicatedly transporting all of Erik's needed possessions to Nadir's flat (Erik believed he would always refer to it as such, regardless of whether he lived there ten hours or ten years). They left all the furniture as was, but took all of his portable inventions, many drawings and sketches, and of course, his vast collection of sheet music, with one notable exception. Carefully, without bending a single page, Erik tied together his _Don Juan Triumphant_ and left it on the organ. He had no need for it anymore; it was best left underground where no one could find it. Erik sealed up the trap door to the torture chamber so that no fool could find himself enclosed in it again. Finally, when all was moved, together they dragged the boat up to the third cellar, positioning it as a mislaid prop, between long, tattered curtains and broken set pieces. Darius arranged for a new piano to be delivered in a few days; it would take up most of Nadir's small sitting room, but as Erik had no mind to entertain anyone, that suited him fine. And then, a full four days after his friend's death, Erik accompanied Darius to a shipyard and returned to Nadir's home—_his _home—alone.

Having lived there for over half a year, it did not take Erik long to become accustomed to his new situation. Thankfully its rooms were still lighted by lingering laughter, not the tragic, haunting spirits of the house beside the lake. At first, he busied himself about the flat, arranging things as need be. He couldn't bear to disturb the master bedroom, so he continued to stay in the guest room, which was not much smaller. It was still green, and such a detestable shade, but Erik couldn't even bring himself to change that, now that he was able to. Yes, it was ugly, but it would lose all of its character if he repainted.

The living and dining rooms remained closest to what they originally were, with Erik moving things only slightly according to taste. The drawing room needed more adjustment, seeing as how a piano would soon occupy it—and Erik was not one to compromise the sound of an instrument merely to accommodate the size of a room. The piano would be in the center, the focus of the room, and so he pushed the sofa, chairs and small desk off to the sides, all facing the empty spot on the uncarpeted floor where the piano would soon sit.

Nadir had also kept a study, conjoined to the left side of the master bedroom. Although Erik had never been inside the room before and it held all of Nadir's most personal possessions, he fully intended on using it. He couldn't be expected to keep his inventions and books in his newly-stated music room, and the living room was no spot for them either. So he had no choice but to go through Nadir's things, keeping the books he might like to read himself, and placing everything else in the unused master bedroom.

He had been in there clearing out Nadir's large oak desk one day when he came across a stack of letters all bundled together. Of course, he had found a few similar stacks, mostly from a Nadir's correspondents who were still in Persia, and so he didn't give these a second thought, until he spied the signature on the bottom of one letter. There, writing in perfectly flowing cursive was the name of Raoul de Chagny. Erik didn't think, he just pulled the top letter from its bundle and began to read. It was dated almost two years ago.

_My friend_, it read, stately and legible. _I dearly hope this letter reaches you. I unfortunately never received your name on the night we met, and so I am sending this letter with my manservant to the Opera House, in the hopes that someone will be able to direct him to you._

_I was never given the opportunity to thank you for what you did that night. It was very noble and courageous of you. I cannot begin to think what might have happened had you not offered your assistance as you did._

_I hope this letter finds you well, presuming that it finds you at all. The struggle to return to a semblance of normalcy has indeed been difficult, but I believe I am bearing it well. Christine, on the other hand, seems lost; she has grown pale and even thinner than she usually is. I try constantly to reach out and comfort her, but every time I do she retreats farther away from me. We were married last week and though she insists she is happy, her demeanor tells me otherwise. I don't expect her to come out of this experience without scars, but I wish she would lean on me and let me help her._

_She told me that, before we were married, she returned to that house, hoping to, as she said, make her peace with him. However, she said that when she arrived there, she found you instead, and that you told her that he was dead._

_I need you, I beg you, to tell me if this is true. Is he dead? It is not that I don't believe Christine; I just feel that I need to know what happened to him before I can even fathom a future._

_I love my wife, monsieur, and I want her to be happy. Perhaps you, once again, may be able to show me the way._

_I remain, always grateful,_

_Raoul de Chagny_

Erik shuffled through the rest of the letters, about twenty in all. So, it seemed Nadir had corresponded with the boy regularly for the past two years. Erik supposed he should have felt betrayed at such action, but mostly he was just amazed that Nadir had managed to keep this epistolary friendship with the Vicomte a secret. He scanned through those that caught his eye. One ended: _I am entirely in your deepest debt. My closest friends and confidants have never been told the truth about the events at the Opera House and I dare not speak of it to Christine. I cannot express to you through words how large a relief it is to be able to write to you about such matters. I have had so much pressing on me for so long, and the weight of it has only begun to lift._

Another began: _I have done as you advised. Though it has not been easy, I have acted as cheerfully as I can while still maintaining dignity and given Christine the time she needs without my interference. In hindsight, I can see that I did dote upon her before, but now that I try my hardest to leave her be, she seeks me out. Our conversations have turned joyful and, while she still weeps some nights, I can once again feel the love that's between us so clearly I can almost touch it._

And yet another: _Thank you for your concerns, my friend, but I have the pleasure of assuring you that I am almost fully recuperated. Unfortunately, the room I accidentally destroyed will not recover so easily._

After he had scanned every one, and organized them according to date, Erik spent the rest of the afternoon reading the letters in full. He had no qualms about reading them; after all, Nadir had left him his house and everything in it, which included the letters. Even without Nadir's replies, it was obvious that he had never betrayed Erik's secrets. The Vicomte seemed to believe him without question when he confirmed (falsely, of course) that Erik had died, just as Christine had said. He wrote mostly seeking advice for pulling his new wife out of the "tragedy she endured". It appeared that Nadir had used his correspondence with Raoul to check in with the young couple, just as Erik had used Wesley.

But that was the past, and Erik had sworn that he would cease to dwell in it. Christine and the Vicomte had finally found their happily ever after, as Raoul's later letters showed; Erik would leave them to it, for above all, he wanted her to be happy. He bound the letters up again and locked them in the desk drawer, determined not to look at them again.

The doorbell rang (luckily this doorbell meant nothing more than the presence of someone at the door, not a sound forbearing the visitor's death by drowning) and Erik eagerly hurried to answer it. _Finally, the piano's arrived, _he thought. Darius had made sure, before he had left, that the movers were informed about the mask, so that they would have no surprises, but when Erik opened the door, it was he who received a surprise. For there, standing on his doorstep, was the past he had just locked in a drawer.

"Hello Erik," she said. If it was possible, she looked more beautiful than she ever had. Her cheeks were bright with color and her eyes were filled with more life than the deep seas he'd always thought they mirrored.

"Hello," he replied. Common courtesy had flown from him in the aftermath of his shock so he just stood, blocking the doorway with his body, staring. Christine did not shy away from his hard look of astonishment; she gazed back without hesitation or embarrassment and, after a few moments of silence, she smiled.

"May I come in?"

It was one of the only times in his life that Erik had stuttered. "Of course," he stammered, and stepped aside to let her pass into the flat. He led her into the living room; she walked with such calm grace she seemed surreal, almost dreamlike.

"What a lovely room," she sighed. "This is quite a change for you."

"Please sit down," he said, gesturing to the sofa, his manners returning to him, and, once she sat, he took his place in the matching upholstered chair. Christine smiled at him again and looked like she was about to say something, but Erik jumped in. "How did you know I was here?" She was not fazed at all by the question; on the contrary, she seemed to have been expecting it.

"Wesley followed you," she replied simply.

"I beg your pardon?"

Christine shifted slightly back, and the sunlight that streamed in from between the curtains played upon her face as it never could underground. She was radiant. "After you left, only moments after you left, I think, Wesley set out after you. He was concerned, you know. The evening hadn't been easy for anyone, but you had been so…_destroyed_…when we'd seen you earlier, and…" She trailed off, her eyes moving backwards through time. "He was concerned. He followed you home and then set up a post outside the fate on the Rue Scribe. Someone was there constantly for the next two days, waiting to inform him when you finally appeared, but it was actually Wesley who was there when you left with a small Persian fellow.

"He followed you all day, and only when he saw you moving your things here did he come and tell me. Wesley wanted to talk to you himself, but I wanted to be the first to see you; I had to talk to you myself. Today was the first day I was able to come." She placed her hands on her lap and smiled, signifying that she was finished. Erik rubbed the arm of his chair in frustrated anxiety. He hadn't though this was even a possibility…

"What did you have to say to me?"

"So much," she sighed. He noticed then for the first time that her hair was bulled back; in all the years he had known Christine, she had never tied her hair up unless her opera costume demanded it. _But of course_, he amended himself, _she hadn't been a mother then._ "Too much," she continued. "First of all, of course, how are you?"

Erik was growing more uncomfortable with every syllable they exchanged. "That's never been the best question to ask me," he said, removing himself from his seat and going to stand by the window. "People don't want the truth when they ask that; they only seek the customary 'I'm good, and how are you' in return. So I oblige the entreating character with his sought response, even if I am neither good nor care if he is."

Christine, whose eyes had followed Erik to the window, frowned at him and with a petulant pout, looked away. "I detest it when you speak to me like that, Erik, as if we didn't even know each other." Ah, and here again was the child he had once hidden so much from. How quickly she was ale to make such a transition! Erik smiled beneath the mask as he looked out the window, relishing the fact that she was not so changed that he could not still bring this side out in her. "I meant nothing but good in asking you that, and I truly want to know." She turned back and pressed herself against the arm of the sofa, struggling to telekinetically will him to face her. "Do you remember how you came to me last? You were so severely altered—"

"Technically I never came to you."

"Fine," she spat in return, "how I found you then. I have every reason to be concerned."

"But you have no responsibility to," Erik said. His voice was steady; that was good.

"How can you say that?" was Christine's pained reply. "Of course I do." Erik heard the rustle of skirts and inferred that she was standing now. "Erik," she called, "look at me."

"I'm enjoying my lovely new view."

"Stop it!" she burst, her voice trembling with rage. "Stop the miserable attempts at sarcasm; I am trying to talk to you! Now look at me." Erik did not move. "Why won't you look at me?" she belted.

"Because," he yelled over her, "I'll betray myself to you."

The room was silent and still for a handful of seconds that seemed to fill a century. Erik had just begun to contemplate turning around to see what was keeping Christine so quiet when, in a flash, she was pressed against him, weeping into his chest. "Oh, Erik," she sobbed. Erik placed a hand tenderly on her back, but he did not embrace her. He mustn't cry with her—he could not let himself be weak!

"Hush now," he soothed in a low voice. "You know it pains me to see you cry." Christine slowly pulled away, wiping her red eyes with her fingertips. "And honestly speaking, in response to your question, if you still care to hear its answer," he said softly as Christine accepted the handkerchief he offered, "I am well, or at least doing much better than I though I would."

"I'm glad," she said, walking away slowly. Once she had increased the distance between them to a proper amount, she faced him once again. "This is what I really came here to tell you," she said, inhaling deeply, as if she were about to recite a speech. But when the air met her lungs, her chin began to quiver, her eyes filled once more with tears, and words just started pouring out.

"I know that I will love you for the rest of my life, and if there is a Heaven, I will love you well beyond eternity. But there is no place for us here, together, on Earth. I understand that now. You were right—you're always right. I know I will never be able to show you my love." Christine was gaining composure steadily. Her tears had ceased to fall and she held her chin high, her eyes somehow penetratingly intense without losing their softness. It slowly dawned on Erik that he was listening to and watching Christine, the woman, as she finally laid her childhood to rest. "But I also know," she continued, "that I cannot be a mother without you. I need you to make me worthy of my daughter." Her eyes glistened with pride at the mention of her child. "I need you to help me grow up. Without you, I'm no better than I was three years ago." With what Erik saw before him, he severely doubted that, but he did not dare to contradict her now. "I know I'm asking a lot of you, but I need you to be my friend. I have to see you and often, but at my house, not here. Raoul knows, well he doesn't know everything, of course not. I couldn't do that to him. He thinks it's—"

"Pity," Erik interjected quietly. "He thinks you're helping me because I'm old and alone."

Christine looked at him sadly. "Yes." Her voice was softer than a whisper and thick with shame. "But at least we can see each other."

"I take it that, should I consent, these visits would be chaperoned?"

"Yes, but most likely by Wesley," she said. Christine took a step forward, her round blue eyes now pleading. "_If_ you consent?"

Erik turned his back to Christine and scrambled to think. Had he not decided to end this part of his life? And would seeing Christine often satiate something inside or would it just deepen the void in his heart with every visit? As his eyes trailed around the room, he thought of Nadir. What would he have advised?

_He would tell you that you should let her go_, a voice inside him said loudly. _He would say that you live in separate worlds now and the only way for both of you to find peace would be to carry on without the other. He would put his hand on your shoulder and tell you that you were doing what was best for both of you._

Yes, Erik thought, that's exactly what Nadir would have said. And so he turned back to Christine resolutely and gave her his answer:

"Of course I consent." She smiled broadly.

After all, when it came to Christine, he had never taken Nadir's advice. Why start now, just because he was dead?

* * *

A/N: Like it? Hate it? Love it? _Tell me!_ Please review! Granted, it wasn't the best thing I ever wrote, but I hope you enjoyed it a bit! I know it kind of jumps around a bit, but we had to get through that to move on… Next chapter (hopefully soon to come, seeing as how it's almost officially _summer_! Whoohoo!) Erik meets Lucette. Awww… OMG, people… Only five more chapters left. Literally. Anyone have a guess to how it's going to end? Well, only I know! wink Good luck with finals—see you on the other side!Again, please, please, _please_ review! I would really appreciate hearing any of your thoughts! 


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